


need not to need

by laskaris



Series: or else a love with intuition [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol, Anxiety, Au Ra Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21520726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laskaris/pseuds/laskaris
Summary: The act of wanting things, of desire, has always been difficult for him, and so Narin Mol tries his best not to want. Easier once he came to Eorzea and the Mothercrystal chose him, easier to fall into fulfilling their needs and not think of his.Easier until he meets G'raha Tia - beautiful, maddening, who talks too much but holds himself apart -  and he remembers what it is to want something.Too bad about all the baggage in the way.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Series: or else a love with intuition [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917886
Comments: 42
Kudos: 221





	1. i need not to need

The act of wanting things has always been _difficult_ for him, even frightening, even more than expressing himself in front of others or asserting himself - and so Narin Mol tries his best not to want, to empty himself out and try not to desire. It doesn't always work, of course, especially when he was younger and his heart easier swayed. The occasional tryst, no more than a night, hairpins for his hair before he cut it off, all small things that leave him uneasy even as he enjoys them. Easier still once he comes to Eorzea, once the Mothercrystal chooses him and he falls into fulfilling other people's needs. Easier to fill himself up with their needs and not think of what _he_ wants, the path of least resistance. Easier until he meets G'raha Tia - beautiful, maddening, who talks too much but holds himself apart - and unfortunately remembers what it is to want, over the months they're exploring the Crystal Tower together. Easy to put that aside, though, or so Narin tells himself. 

Not so easy, though, when G'raha drapes himself across his lap one night, with the practiced, casual grace of someone who has done this with more than one man, and propositions him. Narin's first reaction is to just stare at him, his jaw dropping in incredulous shock. It's not as though Narin _didn't_ know G'raha was pretty casual about sex - as far as he knows (which is actually a fair bit, given that they've been sharing a tent) the eccentric scholar hadn't slept with anyone else on the expedition team and spends most of his time hyperfixating on ancient Allagan history and the Crystal Tower, but he's gone off with an adventurer or two at the Seventh Heaven _(and thrown precise insults and a drink in another adventurer's face for not leaving him alone)_ and there's a fair bit of gossip behind his back, no matter how Rammbroes at least makes token attempts to knock it off, about what he'd gotten up to in his student days. 

But it's one thing to know and quite another to have him in his lap, and _oh. Oh._

"What are you doing?" Narin is much too old, and his voice much too deep, to squeak, a fact that he's thankful for, as he catches G'raha around the waist and tries not to look. He's two fulms taller than G'raha, with hands to match his height, and just _glancing_ at how big his hands are in comparison to the scholar's waist, almost big enough to wrap all the way around, is much too tempting. Goes right to his cock and the old edge of nervousness that comes with anything to do with his own desires comes creeping up again. Oh gods, give him strength, gods help him _not_ to want, because he's done his best to empty himself out but apparently it hasn't been enough.

"I thought that obvious," G'raha says, tilting his head arrogantly, his tail swishing a bit. "But do you require an explanation?" 

Miqo'te are not fragile creatures - Narin _knows_ this. Small and deceptively slight, the lot of them, all wiry muscle and a slim build, and G'raha is no exception, tiny as he is. His sleeveless shirt shows the lean muscle of his arms, an archer through and through, his hands callused from the bowstring. He is not a fragile creature, but the size difference between them - and the almost-illusion granted by that difference - is really, really, really...

"No!" he tries very hard not to yelp in anxious surprise, and at least mostly succeeds. He's not an adolescent anymore, he should definitely be past that. He should be past a lot of things, really, like _wanting things_ and the fact that he _is_ , very much wanting, has his breath and voice catching in his throat, an unfortunately familiar feeling. It's why he tried to empty himself out of all desire in the first place. "I don't need an explanation."

He should let go. He really, really should. But if he _doesn't_ hold onto him - and Narin is sure that G'raha can feel his hands trembling, on his waist- he doesn't know what G'raha will do next. At least he tells himself, trying to ignore how he likes the feeling of G'raha's waist beneath his hands, that he likes touching him. 

"...have you even slept with an Au Ra before?" Narin blurts out moments later without thinking, trying not to think about it and failing miserably at any kind of smooth or intelligent rejoinder. 

"No, I have not." G'raha says, and his full lips curve into a cat smile, just before one small hand comes down to rest on Narin's cock, fingers almost cupping him through the loose pants he's wearing. "But I do like a challenge." 

This is entirely too much. Entirely too much. There's a reason that Narin tries very hard to not think about his desires, his heart beating in his chest like the wings of a tiny trapped bird, anxiety rising in him like the tide, and it's _easier_ to not think about it. Not acknowledge them, just empty himself out. He's too keenly aware that G'raha is still sitting in his lap, with his hand on his cock, and his blood is pounding in his ears, and the close quarters of their shared tent are entirely too close. He wants _too much_ , even beyond just wanting anything at all, and he can't bear the idea of wanting. He can't, it's too overwhelming. How do people stand wanting so much, desiring so much, all the time? 

_(you could have it, you know)_ a familiar whisper, at the back of his mind, that speaks with a voice that sounds like his. _(what you want. he's right here, open and willing for the taking.)_

His hand scrabbles for a moment, at the curve of a slender hip, not even sure what he's doing, before he manages to make his choice, doesn't _listen,_ chooses emptiness and trying hard not to want. Doesn't look any closer at what he wants, at what he's tempted by, his hands tightening _(bruising-tight)_ on G'raha's waist, adjusting his grip on the scholar before he tosses him onto _his_ side of the tent. Stands up, stammers some kind of stupid excuse, can't bring anything else to voice, and bolts, barefoot and shivering in the cold night air, even colder with the lack of the warmth perched on his lap. Breathing in the cold air helps bring him back to his senses, clear his mind of both the haze of anxiety and the haze of lust. Of course he ran out here without his cane, too, just stupid, but he at least knows the way down to the lakeshore where if he's careful, he won't disturb the snakes as they sleep. Picks his way along, silent as the night, as the Dusk Mother, until he reaches the rocks closest to the water and undresses, quickly. 

The shock of cold air, and then even colder lake water, against his bare skin helps, but not nearly enough, even as Narin sinks down to his neck in the water. He's still too entirely keyed up for his liking, even with all the cold, and he sighs at himself. Shouldn't he be better about this? Shouldn't he? He's spent years trying not to want, not to need, and yet here he is now. Gods grant him strength. Closes his eyes as he reaches down to take himself in hand, strokes quick and businesslike. Just enough to get this over with. His mind conjures fragments just to torment him: G'raha's full, pouting lips, kiss-bruised and wrapped around his cock, the finger-print bruises surely left behind on his slim waist, how very tight the little scholar would be around his fingers, much less his cock, and he groans angrily at himself as he comes, spilling over his own fingers before he washes any trace away and quickly gets dressed, shivering against the cold. Don't think about it, don't _want_ it, empty himself out. There. 

Narin can't go back to St. Coinach's Find, not tonight, not even to get his cane or shoes. He'll get those tomorrow, during the daytime, he can spend the night at the Rising Stones in the meantime. He'll just have to avoid G'raha for a week or two - the progress on getting into Syrcus Tower is slow, he's sure he can just go off and do something else for a while. 

...hopefully, anyway. Dusk Mother, help him. 


	2. be happy with the things he's done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narin Mol finally slinks back to St. Coinach's Find, where things are...not going well with him and G'raha. 
> 
> And then he gets himself into a one-sided bar fight.

Avoiding G'raha had not, unfortunately, helped much in the end. Narin had finally come slinking back after two weeks to help more with the Crystal Tower efforts, and the _look_ the scholar had given him over the book that he was flipping through, probably looking for a specific reference, was rather....hm. Not angry, he's certain, from the particular set of his ears - or maybe G'raha's just distracted by what he's doing, buried up to his ears in his very favorite topic- but he's lost as to what it actually is. 

"...is there something I can help with?" he awkwardly addresses the researchers buzzing around the camp like a very strange cloud of bees and is acutely conscious of how useless he is right now. There really isn't that much he _can_ help with at the moment, at least not until they can get into Syrcus Tower, unless it's lifting or carrying or something of that nature. He can read in Eorzean but it is slow-going for him, and he doesn't know anything about Allagan history besides what G'raha has explained. 

Surprisingly, it's G'raha that addresses him first. "Hand me that book." he says, pointing to one of the books in the rather large pile that's right next to him. Carefully, Narin turns to regard the pile - easier to look at the pile of books than at the Miqo'te himself - and slowly slides out the tome in question, afraid the whole time that the stack would come toppling down. 

"This one?" he asks, and G'raha takes it from him, immediately flips it open. Starts scribbling down notes. 

Narin doesn't know what to say, never really has, and he doesn't know how to bridge the very awkward space between them - which is _entirely_ his fault, he should have handled that night with a modicum more grace. His words stick in his throat and he's always been so nervous, too nervous, but he's not even sure he _should_ apologize. He's sorry that he threw G'raha, he probably should have set him down a little more gently, but he's not sure that he should apologize, because he'd likely do it _again_ if he was anxious enough. Both throwing him _and_ staying away longer than he should. And what good is an apology if he's just going to do it again? Hollow words, naught more, and he's reminded of what the Qestir believe about words. He doesn't believe that all words are lies, not at all, but he tries to let no word that is untrue or hollow pass his lips. 

He glances down to the notes on G'raha's knees, written in delicate, precise handwriting. He can't read what's in them, not really: sometimes, the Echo helps him understand someone's heart. But it has never helped him understand G'raha Tia, whose heart remains a closed book. Narin _wants_ to understand the younger man, who is a tangle of complications and contradictions in a slender, beautiful package, wrapped with aloof distance and too many words, but he doesn't know where to begin besides asking G'raha about his favorite topic. 

The questions hang hesitantly on his tongue- _what are you working on_ or _I don't really understand anything about the Allagans, can you explain a little more-_ but before he can ask, G'raha is the first to speak, glancing up from his work. 

"I thought I heard Cid calling you." the scholar says, and Narin winces inwardly. He _hadn't_ heard anything - and his hearing is _very_ keen- but he knows a dismissal when he hears one. "You should go see what he wants." 

"...I-I'll do that. Thanks." Narin stammers and hastily gets up, trying not to knock over the precariously-balanced book pile as he does so. There's no use making G'raha even _more_ upset with him, after all.

***

It's a slow night in the Seventh Heaven, for once, with a cold, ill-luck wind blowing in off the lake. It's usually too crowded for Narin to feel comfortable there, too many staring eyes, between the people who stare at the obvious foreigner or the people who stare at him because he's the Warrior of Light, so he's usually taken to drinking alone somewhere, either in the Rising Stones or sitting on a rock somewhere, looking up at the stars. But there's only a handful of people here tonight, a fact that he's profoundly grateful for as he makes his way to the bar to order a drink. Nothing here is familiar so he's just taken to ordering something random and hoping for the best, though he ignores all the drinks with absolutely obscene names. 

Whatever Narin got tonight is strong and sweet and tastes like oranges - maybe he should actually remember this drink's name, so he can order it again in the future- and he hopes for a nice, quiet night as he settles down with his drink, takes another sip. Sweetness and oranges and unfamiliar sunshine on his tongue. The night is quiet and still, until a familiar voice drifts to him. 

"-thought I made myself perfectly clear the first time." the clear, precise Sharlayan accent is unmistakable, as is the aloof tone and soft voice. Narin turns to see G'raha Tia sitting at a table in the corner, with a drink in front of him - and there's a rather drunk Hyur man, tall and broad and with shaggy blue hair, sitting next to him. Or, rather, not sitting next to - half-draped over, rather, large arm resting on slender shoulders. "Stop wasting both our time." 

For a moment, Narin is surprised to see him here - if there's anyone here who he'd say is _less_ inclined to be found in a bar than he is, it would have been G'raha Tia - before he remembers what he'd heard about him. Didn't come here tonight to drink, probably, then, probably came looking to flirt and find a random person to share a bed with...and ended up with this. After a moment, he shifts on the bar stool, and keeps a watchful eye on the situation. He knows perfectly well that G'raha can take care of himself, but- 

The set of G'raha's ears is low and angry, just before they go flat, pinned to his head, and his tail lashes, just before he picks up his drink and dumps it on the man. "Let me go." he demands, soft voice laced with simmering anger, underlaid with something else. It takes a moment for Narin to realize what it is, and he sees it only once G'raha reaches up and yanks the hairpins out of his hair, small hand trembling for a brief moment, just before he drives the _(sharp)_ pins into the man's hand. And he does not like seeing G'raha afraid: Narin's already setting down his drink and standing up, crossing the room towards the two of them. 

There's a very drunk-sounding yelp of pain and then a string of colorful-sounding expletives that Narin can't entirely follow but that sound like cursing. "Stop playing hard to get-" 

Narin grabs his other arm, grip precisely, painfully tight. "Leave him alone," he says, clear, and steps into the man's vision, positions himself there as an immediate threat, trying to draw his attention away from G'raha. People like him respond to an immediate physical threat, or what seems to be one, the bigger object in the room: so the more fool him, because if G'raha had his bow he could put an arrow through his eye from a good distance while Narin is just a white mage for all that he happens to also be the Warrior of Light. "Or else." 

In his peripheral vision, he can see the confused set of G'raha's ears, the way his tail questioningly beats against the table, but doesn't spare time to look at the scholar. At least not yet. Can hear that G'raha's saying something, but can't quite process it. Not right now, with anger slowly bubbling up in him. 

"What are you gonna do? Hit me with that stick?" the man slurs, pointing at the cane that's still strapped to his back. 

"No," Narin says, low. He tries not to be angry too often, tries to save his anger for important things. He's clearer when he's angry, far less anxious, more certain, but he hates the feeling, afterward. But this is _important._ And he's tired of this, tired of people like this, who feel entitled to do whatever they like, and he can at least do something about _this_ man. Hadn't it been why he'd come over in the first place? He can't solve everything, no matter how had he tries, how many different directions he goes in, but he does what he can, and here is a problem right in front of him that he can solve. "No, I'm not." 

Instead, he stands up and grabs the man by his collar, drags him away from G'raha, towards the other side of the room. "Leave him alone." he repeats himself, voice still low. "He clearly has no interest in you." 

"Pretty things like that always change their mind," the man says, and Narin grits his teeth and is careful to not steal a glance back at G'raha. It's not fair that the scholar has to deal with stuff like this when all he wants is some kind of casual fling for a night and he thinks, for a moment, of the Miqo'te dancing girls he'd seen in Ul'dah, and how they'd had to maneuver carefully around unwanted touch and deal with unwanted comments. The _apparent_ hazard of being young and beautiful and small and desirable and he hates it, those girls should just be free to dance, G'raha should just be free to pursue his occasional casual trysts, without being _bothered_ in ways that they don't want. "And if he didn't want the attention, then he shouldn't come here like this." 

And with that, Narin's careful control _snaps._ " _You_ shouldn't come here if you can't take no for an answer," he growls, easily lifts him and just throws him in the direction of the bar, wanting him somewhere _away_. He probably should have thrown him _out_ the door, but he wasn't thinking very clearly - until the sound of a dull thump and shattering glass echoes in the room and the cloud of anger hanging heavy over him dissolves. Oh, _no._ He wasn't sure _what_ he'd wanted to do with him, other than get him away from G'raha, but _oh no._ He hopes that he didn't kill him - and after a moment, can see that he's lying, limp, across the bar. 

There's a faint groan from the man, after a moment, but he doesn't stir. Oh, _that's_ a relief, that he didn't kill him,, and he lets out the breath that he didn't even realize that he was holding. Narin's killed before, of course he has, in his career as an adventurer and the Warrior of Light, but he didn't really want to kill anyone in what amounted to a bar fight in a fit of temper. 

"It looks like you've knocked him out," the substitute bartender says, with a shrug. "He'll probably be back around soon enough. You should probably leave before he does, both you and the boy back there." she gestures in G'raha's direction, vaguely. "...well, _after_ you pay for what you broke." 

"...how much?" Narin sighs, as he reaches for his purse. The bartender names a surprisingly staggering sum and Narin glances at the broken bottles on the floor, having absolutely no idea what was _in_ them or their cost, but starts counting out the gil. He has no choice but to pay - he can't get banned from the Seventh Heaven, not when he needs to access the door to the Rising Stones, and while his presence and fame might be a boon for business, it might not counterbalance any trouble he might cause. Adds a few more coins to cover the cost of his drink, then tosses on a few more to cover whatever G'raha had been drinking, or nursing, or whatever he was doing with his drink. He doesn't know much about Sharlayan scholars but if he's were to guess, books don't pay and junior scholars _especially_ don't get paid much - and while he's perpetually almost-broke if not flat broke as an adventurer, at least he can take odd jobs to get money. 

...well, that solves what he's going to be doing for the next few days unless there's a breakthrough on getting into Syrcus Tower. Taking odd jobs to earn money because right now even using an Aetheryte any further away than the one in Revenant's Toll would strain the limits of his very empty, very light purse. And with that, he flees the bar without thinking about what door he's exiting from - and he's already out the front door before he realizes that he should have gone for the door back into the Rising Stones instead. Narin considers it turning around, before the door opens behind him, with soft footsteps on the stone: he doesn't need to turn around to know it's G'raha, because he knows the sound, the rhythm, of how he walks. 

No, he's already run away from G'raha once and he's _still_ dealing with the consequences of that choice, panicked though it had been. He's not going to run away from him _again_ and make it worse, even as his heart beats like a trapped bird in his chest. 

"...hi." he says, very awkwardly. 

"You didn't have to _save_ me," G'raha says, as arch as ever. But hidden beneath his usual stubborn tone is something else: a hint of surprise? He hadn't been expecting anyone to intervene, Narin realizes, and that knowledge, along with the brief story he'd told before about his childhood says...volumes, and he doesn't _like_ it. About why he holds himself apart but talks enough to fill the silence, why he can ask for help on projects relating to the Crystal Tower but expects no one to help him when he's being harassed. He's probably never been able to depend on anyone to _help_ him, not really, and has always had to save himself. "I could have gotten rid of him myself. " 

"You're right, you could have." Narin replies, carefully, trying to get his words out for once, as he falls into step with G'raha, tries not to stare overlong at the scholar's hair. He clearly made an effort to pin it back up though didn't really bother with the braid, but it's was a hasty job and the way it falls half-undone is unfortunately appealing. It's difficult, trying to adjust the length of his stride to be able to keep pace with the far smaller man, but he does his best. "But you shouldn't _have_ to." 

For a moment, even G'raha is struck speechless, full lips parting soundlessly. Narin tries not to think of how something in him _liked_ that - he likes hearing G'raha talk, could listen to him explain for hours about things he doesn't really understand, but something about the way he's just so suddenly quiet is....something. "Be as that may," he finally says. "I doubt he will bother me again. And thank you for that." 

He smiles, briefly, the curve of his mouth illuminated by moonlight, and it's an entirely different smile than what Narin's seen from him before, even with his frequent smiles. Not teasing or arrogant or anything like that. Gentle, vulnerable. It's only for a moment, but Narin finds that he likes that look on him. Not distant, not full of bravado, not stubbornly arrogant. It's...nice. It suits him, and Narin finds himself wondering, for a moment, what G'raha would look like actually _happy._ He's been excited about the Crystal Tower, enthusiastic, but Narin's not certain about _happy._ He's not certain that he has the _right_ to even try, but someone _should._


	3. reach out hold back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narin returns to St. Coinach's Find in time to find G'raha in a Mood. 
> 
> He has a serious talk with Rammbroes and then has to try to bait an irritated catboy out of a tree. At the cost of his dignity and almost all the money in his purse.

Four days of hard work and random errands later, Narin finally has something resembling money in his pocket again. Not _much_ money, all told, but at least enough that he can pay for cheap meals, the occasional inn room, and Aetheryte travel again, as long as he's careful about it. No more losing his temper and throwing men into bars, not even if they fully deserve it: he'll have to think of another way to deal with them, that doesn't involve breaking anything. Hopefully. 

It somehow figures, of course, that he returns to G'raha being in an absolute _mood_. Nothing to do with him this time, because Narin at least thought to make it clear that he's not avoiding G'raha this time, he just needs to make money. Instead, he guesses, it has everything to do with Rammbroes's continued restrictions on him - and the seeming lack of the same on the two new researchers, apparently other Students of Baldesion, who were hanging about the camp helping with...whatever needed to be helped with. Unei and Doga, their names were, or something like that? He's too preoccupied trying to _find_ a certain Miqo'te scholar, to really remember their names. Narin checks the spots he's noticed G'raha haunting before, when he's been moody, but no luck: where could he have gone? 

The answer, as it turns out, was surprising, but perhaps it shouldn't have been. 

"...so G'raha's...in a tree?" Narin asks, cautiously, of one of the Sons of Saint Coinach, who nods. 

"He and Rammbroes got into it again a couple of days after you left." she says. "We've almost at a breakthrough in getting into Syrcus Tower, since those other two came, and, well, G'raha thought to appeal his decision. But Rammbroes is....really stubborn on this point, and you...know how stubborn G'raha is, once he's got an idea in his head. Neither of them would back down, until Rammbroes told him his decision was final. So G'raha took half the books he was looking at and...he's been there since. Working on something or another." 

Narin sighs. "...did he take any food up there with him?" he _knows_ how slender the little scholar's waist is, if more intimately than his anxiety's comfortable with, and has seen him skip meals, too caught up in what he's working on. And if it's been two days...

The other scholar shrugs. "Hopefully?" she doesn't sound too certain, either. "He'll come down...eventually..."

"...I'll take care of it." he says, trying not to sigh. Maybe he won't botch this up. Maybe. Hopefully?

The first thing he thinks of is to talk to Rammbroes - Narin doesn't expect anything to change, but maybe he'd be able to understand just _why_ he was so inflexible on that decision. 

"G'raha's too valuable." Rammbroes says, simply. "Even with his...eccentricities, he's the foremost expert on the Allagan Empire here. Even among the scholars back home, he's one of the best - really, _the_ best, though the older scholars in his field would never admit it or give him anywhere near enough funding - has devoted his entire life to it in a way that no one else can claim, and his tattoos tell that story. And as much as he might want to go running headlong off to see what he's devoted his entire life to, there's too much risk of him getting hurt or killed." 

"Even if I was there with him?" Narin asks. Absolutely does not think about those tattoos on G'raha's neck and the brief thought that he wants to put his mouth on them. This is absolutely not the time for him to be thinking about that, and the familiar anxiety is already starting to well up in him. Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it. 

"Not even if you were there with him." Rammbroes says, his tone final. "Not even _you_ can keep him from harm, especially not if he gets ahead of you. And I don't think you could stop him from doing so, even if you put him on a collar and leash." 

_..._ Narin has to resist the urge to bury his head in his hands at that mental image. _Why this_. He grits his teeth and tries to force his mind to _somehow_ not dwell on that image, to not imagine a delicate leather collar wrapped around G'raha's pale, slender throat, and absolutely fails. The blood pounds in his ears and he really really shouldn't be thinking about that right now, manages to force his mind away with a great deal of effort, even as he can feel his anxiety rising again, enough to make him want to flee his skin. 

"...Noted." he manages to say, and doesn't look Rammbroes in the eyes. "...I'll try to find a way to make G'raha understand." 

"I've been trying to hit my head against _that_ particular wall of stubbornness for _years_ , Narin. Since he was _this_ tall," Rammbroes indicates with his hand roughly the height of a very small Miqo'te child - or so Narin assumes - , likely pre-growth spurt. Even in Sharlaya, he must have been a lonely child, Narin thinks: bullied by his peers in his tribe, if not entirely outcast, sharp-tongued and with something to prove even after he'd left his tribe behind. Not easy to get along with: he's caught glimpses of gentleness beneath aloofness and arrogant bravado, but those glimpses are brief, and part of him aches to coax that gentleness out of him, to make him happy, even if it's not his right to do. "I don't think you'll have any better luck than I did, but I wish you luck in trying." 

"Thank you," Narin says, nervously, after a moment. "...but I'll settle for getting him out of the tree first." 

Rammbroes's rueful bark of laughter follows him, as Narin turns to leave _(taking a few minutes to quietly locate the tree G'raha's hiding in, down near the Tower)_. He's noticed, across the time he's spent with NOAH, that G'raha likes citrus fruits, especially oranges - and while he _could_ just try to lure him down with a basket of fresh oranges, the scholar probably needs to eat something more substantial than just oranges by now. And with that thought, he sets off for Revenant's Toll and the Seventh Heaven - not for alcohol, this time, but to see what food they could cook him, preferably with citrus or especially oranges. Unfortunately for his poor purse, the choices were slim - and the most likely was _expensive._

Sighing, Narin hands over - for the second time in a week - entirely too much money to the barkeep at the Seventh Heaven, for two hot, fresh portions of roast canard, much more expensive than he'd been budgeting for. _Extremely_ expensive. Almost _too_ expensive, but not quite. And if they're as close to a breakthrough on getting into Syrcus Tower as that other scholar had seemed to think they were, then he won't have time to go make any money again for a little while. But it's fine, he can make do. 

Once the duck has been packaged for transport, Narin sets off, back to St. Coinach's Find. When he gets to G'raha's tree, the scholar still very much engrossed in his book, he doesn't bother calling out to him to get his attention, but instead sits down under the tree with the food, unwrapping it slowly. A couple of cheaply glazed, shallow clay pots - and he lifts the lid off one, slowly, to let the tantalizing scent of roast duck and oranges fill the air - and a couple of equally cheaply glazed clay plates, though he only sets out one for right now, lays out his portion of canard and sauce on it, as well as his waterskin. He's hungry himself, though not as hungry as G'raha must be - he'd skipped lunch himself, once he settled on what his plan would be. Digs his own personal fork out of his bag and starts eating - gods, it's delicious, even somewhat burned, though much too rich to eat on more than extremely special occasions, in both taste and its effect on his purse. How do wealthy Eorzeans even manage to eat like this for _every meal_? 

He doesn't call out to G'raha, still, pretending that he doesn't see him, though he can see his tail in his peripheral vision, wiggling faintly. Narin _knows_ that Miqo'te are not cats - and that it is, in fact, a deadly insult to compare them to a cat, and especially to offer them catnip- but G'raha reminds him _very_ much like a cat sometimes _(even if he would never say so to his face or even behind his back)_ , more like a cat than the little scholar would like to think about or admit. So if he ignores him long enough - _and_ makes whatever he's eating tempting enough to catch his attention, if not some curiosity - then G'raha _should_ come down, sooner or later. The question is whether it would be sooner or later. But he has time to wait and he leans back against the tree to continue eating. Gods, this is _delicious_ , maybe he should take up cooking just to occasionally make this for himself. 

Narin sees G'raha's tail swish, and then moments later, the scholar jumps out of the tree, landing near-soundlessly, close to him, and carefully sets his pile of books on the ground. Just as he expected him to do, but Narin keeps his eyes off the Seeker - which he regrets almost immediately, trying not to startle and mostly failing as G'raha nestles against his side, leaning across his lap to snatch the bite he was just about to take right off his fork. 

"...I have a plate here for you," Narin says, trying not to flee his skin at any moment and at least succeeding at that, just as he snatches the hand with his now-empty fork away. G'raha grins cheekily, full lips turning upward, from the pout. "I'm not going to hand-feed you." 

"Stolen food tastes the best," G'raha says, mischievously. Oh, right, there _had_ been that over-dramatic business with G'raha, opportunistic thief, and the aethersand: Narin had done his best to forget about it, entirely. 

"...you could just steal this entire plate that I left unattended over here...?" Narin asks, trying not to sigh as he attempts to fork another bite of duck for himself and eat it without G'raha stealing it, barely managing to snatch the fork out of his grasp. "I don't have my eyes on it." 

Narin watches G'raha's expression as he very visibly toys with the hint, like a cat playing with its food, and very visibly _drops_ it. "Two plates? Then we can share both," he says, snatching the next bite off his fork, and Narin tries very hard not to sigh as he forks another bite of duck and at least puts up token resistance against G'raha attempting to steal it, though he's already indulging him. 

_Why is he like this?_ Though he's also very certain that G'raha only accepts this because it's on his own terms: if he was hurt or ill and couldn't eat on his own and needed help, Narin is very certain that he wouldn't accept him feeding him by hand. 

"If you behaved like this in front of the khangan of my tribe, especially at your age," Narin says, once all the duck is gone - shared between them, despite his ineffectual grumbling and G'raha's mischievousness, though he'd noted partway through that G'raha only stole every _other_ bite, even once the first portion was gone and he tried to encourage him to steal all of the second portion - and the plates, jars, and the fork have all been dealt with and cleared away, "she would take you over her knee." 

G'raha smiles, the same cat smile. Challenging, half-secret. "You could _attempt_ to do the same, if you like." 

Narin immediately chokes on air and absolutely nothing at _that_ mental image. He is somewhat unfortunately _reasonably_ familiar with how nice G'raha's ass is, between the tight pants he's so fond of wearing, his penchant for dramatically walking away, and the fact he just _keeps_ sitting in his lap, sweet and supple and just the right size to suit his slender frame. Tries not to think about the marks of his hands, bright and livid, across slim graceful thighs, across a pretty, pert ass, but the harder he tries not to think about it the more he does, no matter how much he tries to empty himself out again, anxiety rising high in him again. "Do you make that _same_ offer to every man you try to get to share your bed?" 

G'raha leans across his lap again, resting his weight _deliberately_ tantalizingly across his cock. _Damn_ him, and Narin tries not to groan, even as he feels his body stir. "Oh, no. Most of the men who I _allow_ to fuck me," the coarse vulgarity sounds strange on his tongue, even with how blunt and rude he often is, but that, too, hits him in a place he doesn't want to think about. Keeping his hands still is an effort, especially because he wants so much and equally wants to flee his skin at this very moment so he doesn't have to deal with desire ever again. But he's trying not to throw G'raha out of his lap and run away this time, because he'd already made that mistake once already, twice might be too much, even as the Seeker looks up at him through long lashes, mismatched eyes fixed on his. "Wouldn't think to put that kind of work in. Or wouldn't _care_ to." 

He swallows, hard. He wants. He wants so much. He wants too much. "I..." 

After a moment, G'raha takes pity on him and sits up, reaching for his books. "Keep that in mind," he says, impishly, though there's a veiled hint of something else in his voice that Narin isn't sure about, though he should probably try to figure out what it is, before he stands up, beginning to walk away. He just lets him go, for now, and tries not to watch him walk away, tries not to look closely at the sway of his hips but isn't entirely successful. 

Narin groans, when he's sure that G'raha is gone, and reaches for his waterskin, dumping what's left of the lukewarm water onto his head. It's not cold, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it's better than nothing. Better than nothing, and least he can still think. _Why is he like this?_ Beautiful, maddening, and someday going to be the death of him, if he's not careful, and he just leans back and lets his head thump gently against the ground. 


	4. watches the dusk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOAH finally makes progress and opens Syrcus Tower for exploration. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Narin and G'raha Tia have a moment. Well, several of them.

After hours of lifting and carrying in preparation for _finally_ entering Syrcus Tower the next day, Narin stumbles, absolutely exhausted, into the tent he shares with G'raha, only to find the scholar curled amidst scattered - _dropped_ \- books, his hand clutched over his right eye, and the sound of his breathing is too fast, pained and still, so very still, otherwise. Immediately, he can feel his heart like a trapped bird in his chest as he drops down to his knees next to him, already pulling his cane from his back. This isn't the first time he's seen G'raha have one of his attacks, far from the first time, but this is the worst he's seen yet, and he reaches out, drawing from the world's aether around him _(Mor Dhona's aether is slow and sluggish but tinged with unbearably ancient power)_ to cast a simple healing spell., light washing over him, because Narin doesn't know what else to do. What else he _could_ do. 

After a moment or two of increasingly panicked worry, G'raha stirs, groaning, long eyelashes fluttering as his mismatched eyes open. "W-what....?" he mutters, sounding entirely disoriented and exhausted, slender hands trembling before he manages to get them under control. At least he's awake, but Narin's worry only increases at his condition - he needs to rest. But G'raha sits up, almost immediately, heedless of the fact that he'd collapsed among books and papers. 

"G'raha," Narin says, wringing his hands worriedly, "You need to rest. You had another of your spells but you _fainted_ this time." 

The Miqo'te's pretty ears turn towards the sound of his voice, tail flicking questioningly, but he does't seem to _hear_ him. Instead, G'raha is already reaching for another book, which Narin grabs out of his reach, and the scholar turns wide, betrayed eyes on him. "What are you doing?" he asks, trying to grab the book back out of Narin's hands. "I need that book." he sounds feverish, delirious even, his eyes too-bright in the lamplight. 

"You need to _rest,"_ Narin insists: he's almost _never_ assertive, not if he can help it, but G'raha is _ill_. He doesn't know _how_ he's sick but he's clearly sick and needs to rest. 

G'raha shakes his head. "No, I'm so close," he says, desperately. "I just need a little more." 

"You need to rest, G'raha." Narin says, again, even though G'raha isn't listening. "What are you close to?" 

In the dim light from the lamp, G'raha's catlike pupils are blown-glass. "There's something. Something I need to find." 

"You can find it tomorrow, can't you?" Narin snatches the next book that G'raha reaches for, and the next. There's a lot of books and he only has two arms, but he can probably hold a lot of books. 

" _I need to do this. Why won't you let me?"_ the sheer plaintive, _desperate_ note in G'raha's voice _hurts_ to hear, but Narin steels himself. 

"Why is this so important?" he asks, voice low. "Why can't this wait until tomorrow?" 

"This is all I _can_ do." the scholar's tail lashes, agitated, ears pressed tight against his head: familiar frustration wrapped around an unfamiliar mood. G'raha's been frustrated, repeatedly, about Rammbroes forbidding him to go along on the initial expeditions into first the Labyrinth, and now the impending one into Syrcus Tower, but there's something almost otherworldly about this particular mood. He's been...strange, since those two...clones? had come, and Narin worries, quietly. "So it _can't_ wait." 

He immediately tries to reach for another book - and instead of grabbing the book, Narin gently grabs his arm, pulls him back into him, and drops the two books he was holding. 

"What are you doing, let me go-" G'raha protests, just as Narin easily scoops him up in his arms and carries him over to his cot, sits down with him on it. "I need to-" 

"It can wait until tomorrow." Narin repeats himself, again, though G'raha doesn't seem to be in much of a mood to listen. 

"I can't just do _nothing!"_

"You aren't doing nothing. You're doing a lot." Narin says, firm but gentle, his voice quiet. "All I _can_ do is fight. I can't read any of those books, I don't know any of that history except what you've taught me, I haven't studied anything. No one here has the level of knowledge that you do, not even Rammbroes or Cid. You're the one who makes this possible, at least on a scale much faster than...a very long time. " after a moment, he tries again. "Just rest for a little while." 

"I...I can't." G'raha's voice is strangely small, and exhausted, and entirely unlike him, and Narin is suddenly so afraid for him. "I'm so close. I just need to..." 

For a moment, he tries to get up, vainly trying to escape from Narin's arms and the cot, but almost immediately goes limp, unconscious again. Narin catches his cane with his foot and drags it over: there isn't much that his healing magic can do, he's certain, but he wants to try, anyway. At least G'raha doesn't seem to be relapsing into another attack, and his breathing sounds even with sleep, rather than too-fast or pained - and just as he expected, the light of healing white magic washes over him with little effect. Narin frowns for a moment and casts again, drawing on the aether around him, shaping it into one of his most rarely-used spells - Repose. Spells of sleep never lasts long, and perhaps part of that is how rarely he casts them, but at least this will guarantee G'raha dreamless, restful sleep, for even if only a little while. 

With careful, infinite gentleness, Narin sets G'raha down on the cot, settles the blankets around him, and frowns even more. G'raha is never gentle or kind to himself, is terrible at taking care of himself - he'd already seen it over the time they'd been exploring the Tower, usually hidden beneath aloof arrogance and bravado, but tonight had _really_ demonstrated that. Witnessing the intersection of G'raha's lifelong obsession and...whatever strange things with his Eye that had started once Unei and Doga had come, whatever strange thing, compulsion, drive, whatever it was, that had taken over him tonight, was even more painful that Narin had expected. And what would have happened to him if he _hadn't_ come back tonight? He spends just as many nights at the Rising Stones as he does in St. Coinach's Find, and the thought of G'raha - alone, ill, and vulnerable, struggling to continue his research and pushing himself even more, refusing to rest, refusing to take care of himself, is a sharp pain in his chest, accompanied by the familiar fluttering of his anxiety. What if - no, _when-_ this happens again? G'raha won't take care of himself, he knows it in his bones already. He already skips meals when caught up in research, goes without sleep when he's particularly obsessed with puzzling something out, and whatever he's being driven to try to find out won't help that any. No, he can't leave him alone, then. 

Carefully, so carefully, Narin eases himself down onto the cot, ignoring the one on his side of the tent, and lies down by sleeping G'raha's side. Smooths wisps of red hair out of his closed eyes, makes certain that the blankets are carefully drawn up over the sleeping scholar, and closes his own eyes, to wait until morning comes. 

~~~

The next morning, G'raha awakens with a headache, confused and disoriented. He doesn't seem to have any memory of his strange mood the previous night, and Narin decides not to tell him about it, especially as he woke up enough before him that he could get out of the cot and avoid any awkward questions, as well as stretch out his cramped limbs. Instead, he brings him a headache tonic, an old remedy that he'd learned how to make from Temulun Khatun when he'd been small and just beginning his apprenticeship to the healers, even before he'd been allowed or able to learn even the most basic of conjury. 

"What's this?" G'raha asks, staring at the brightly-colored liquid, mismatched eyes narrowed more than a little suspiciously. "Some kind of medicine?" 

"Headache remedy." Narin says, checking that his staff isn't broken and that all his gear is in good order. After a moment, he carefully beginning to reslot materia into his cane, one glowing orb at a time. It's not surprising that G'raha is being difficult about the medicine - what _isn't_ he difficult about, really - but it's actually kind of cute. "I thought you might need it, if you're going to be reading all day." 

"...oh, very well." G'raha says, and downs the mug. His ears immediately press flat against his head and the face he makes at the taste is somehow the most cutely displeased expression that Narin's ever seen on anyone. "...I would almost prefer the headache." he mutters. "What is even _in_ this?" 

" _That_ ' _s_ a Mol secret." Narin says, and takes back the mug before G'raha can drop it or, worse, throw it. "Tastes awful, is actually very good for you. Such is the way of the gods." 

"Your gods and every apothecary and alchemist in the realm." the scholar mutters sourly, pouting. 

"Such is as it is." Narin cleans the mug with a damp cloth that he has to hand and tucks them both back into his bag, before turning his attention back to the task of finishing with the materia in his staff. If he loses any of his materia, he currently doesn't have the funds to replace any of them, and the thought haunts him like static in the back of his head the whole time he tries to reslot them. By the time he picks up the last materia, his hands are trembling, trembling so badly that he can't get the last materia in the slot, and drops it with a curse, immediately expecting to have to drop everything and chase it down the slope, hopefully before it ends up in the lake. Or eaten by a large cobra. Before it can roll away, though, a small hand reaches out and catches it and puts it into place with a firm click. Narin's frozen for a long moment,, trying to figure out whether he should call attention to what G'raha just did by thanking him, or whether the scholar would prefer that he not draw attention to it, or -

By the time he manages to pull his thoughts out of the tangle, still no closer to an answer, the moment has passed. "Does your head feel better, at least?" Narin finally asks, uncertain. 

"That it does." G'raha says, his ears gradually perking up, tail flicking, though the set of his ears is still low. Still unhappy about not being allowed to come with to the Tower, though resigned to that, by now. His ears are so expressive, along with his tail, and honestly, Narin could probably watch them for quite a while. The only other Miqo'te he can claim to have spent much time around is Y'shtola, though he's seen some of the Keepers of the Moon that live in the Shroud during his time in Gridania at a distance, and she isn't nearly so expressive as G'raha is. "Thank you. I should be able to get quite a bit of work done while you're gone." after a moment, he looks up again. "You should go - they're probably waiting for you down at the gate." It's not a dismissal, not quite, or at least it's not one directed at _Narin_ specifically this time, just the fact that he _does_ need to go, not spend too much more time here at the Eight Sentinels, and the equally heavy sense that G'raha wants to be left alone with his bitter resignation and his work: there's a certain bitter longing underlying his words, and it makes Narin ache to hear. 

Narin takes a quick look around as he stands up, making sure that there really isn't anyone else around - or if any of the other Sons of St. Coinach were around, that they were all occupied and out of the way. Especially making sure that Rammbroes hasn't started back down the path looking for him. Once he's certain that the Roegadyn isn't just going to appear out of nowhere, he drops down to his knees, trying to put himself more on G'raha's eye level. "Once we've cleared out the traps, and whatever other hazards are there," he says, voice quiet and only for the Miqo'te's ears, trying not to sound hesitant or nervous but knowing he is failing, has never hated his timidity and anxiety more than in this moment. "I'll bring you into the Tower. Until then, if I find something small I can bring you, like an artifact or even just a piece of crystal that fell off a wall or something, I'll bring that to you instead. I promise." 

Full lips part, startled, and Narin doesn't miss the quiver in G'raha's lower lip. "You don't have to do that," the scholar says, his voice small and vulnerable, all traces of aloof arrogance or eccentricity momentarily stripped away. 

Narin reaches out and takes his hands in his - so small and delicate next to his, but slender and strong, fingers bowstring-callused, and trusts that the gesture says what his words cannot entirely get across through his anxiety, through his timidity. "But I want to." 

After a moment, he lets go and stands up again, and watches the slow, gentle smile blossom across G'raha's face. Brief, but there. "But I hope you'll know where to go when we do. I don't think I'll be able to make heads or tails of any direction in there. Or remember which way I've already gone." 

G'raha smirks, tail swishing haughtily, and this is already much more familiar ground. What did he get himself into? "Don't worry. I have more than enough ideas. But you _really_ should be going now." 

"...right." Narin says, and makes his way down the path, towards the gate to Syrcus Tower. Behind him, he can hear the familiar sound of pages turning and ink against paper as G'raha begins to take notes.

~~~

Late that night, long after the sun set, Narin drags himself wearily down to the lake, hoping to soak his weary bones in cold water. He is much too tired to even think about hauling water to heat for a hot bath, too broke to teleport to Revenant's Toll, much less consider an inn room somewhere. It was slow and difficult work, fighting through Syrcus Tower a floor at a time, and there's still so much to go: he couldn't even begin to figure out where the throne room was, much less anything else. Hours and hours of fighting later, all the gold-washed blue floors begin to look alike - a thought he'd never, ever share with G'raha, who he's certain _could_ tell all those floors apart when he sees them, even if exhausted enough that his eyes were crossing. 

Unfortunately for his desire to be alone and have a nice cold bath, Narin discovers a small pile of clothes sitting on the lake-shore, as well as the corpses of a couple of large snakes that had wandered too close, a single arrow neatly through an eye on each of them. _Oh no._ It's the obvious skill in archery that tips him off to who the clothes belong to, even before he takes a closer look and sees the familiar bow and quiver laid among the equally familiar sleeveless red shirt and pants, neatly folded, as well as the leather archer's gauntlets and greaves, with the strange aetherometer G'raha always wears around his neck set carefully on top of the pile, as well as several hairpins . 

Damn, damn, _damn_. He doesn't begrudge G'raha his timing, not at all, but he'd wanted to be alone. Maybe he should just go- 

The sound of a splash catches his attention and without thinking, his head jerks around in that direction, only to see G'raha, standing in the shallows, back turned to the shore. There's absolutely nowhere safe for Narin to be looking because he has a _really_ good view of G'raha, entirely from the back, confirming much of what he'd already suspected about his body beneath his clothes - and yes, his ass is every bit as nice as he'd suspected. Sweet and supple and just as pretty and pert as he'd thought, nicely toned, and he really shouldn't be looking, anxiety rising in him like the tide because he wants so much. He can almost imagine how the Miqo'te's ass would feel in his hands, beneath his hands, and his throat feels like it is closing up for a moment. The rest of G'raha's body, at least what he can see, is _also_ nice to look at: loose red hair falling past his shoulders, unbound and unpinned for once, the lean, wiry muscle of a skilled archer and gymnast evident throughout his willowy frame, long slender legs, narrow hips and slim thighs marked with fading blue-black bruises. His eyes settle again on those bruises: they are several days old, no longer livid against pale skin, unmistakably fingermarks from whenever the last time G'raha went to the Seventh Heaven to flirt and find a casual lover for the night was. Finger-marks made by unmistakably large hands and he swallows, hard, trying to banish the sudden image of his own hands on G'raha's slim hips, so small beneath his hands, leaving his own marks over those fading bruises, as unfortunately appealing as that idea is. He's exhausted, weary beyond belief, and yet his cock still manages to stir somehow, and he tries not to groan. 

G'raha gracefully bends over to wash his feet, hair tumbling over his shoulders as he does so, and Narin tries, very very hard, to tear his eyes away from the absolutely perfect view of his ass that he has now, tries not to think about how much he'd like to bend him over a rock and just have him right here, tries to wrench his thoughts away from that direction, anxiety catching in the back of his throat, static in the back of his head, wants to flee out of his skin. He desperately wants to plunge himself into cold water to take the edge of, to think about something, anything else other than this, anything other than the _unfortunately very tempting_ bathing beauty in front of him, except that G'raha is _right there_ and while the lake is very large, he is too tired to swim away from him. He tries not to groan, again, but fails miserably this time - and is so caught up in his anxiety, exhaustion, and unfortunately lurid mental images, he doesn't notice when G'raha moves. 

"Did you come to swim, too?" G'raha asks, smiling his cat smile, from suddenly right in front of him, leaning against the lakeshore, arms folded and water droplets clinging tantalizingly to the curve of his bare shoulders. Like some beautiful water spirit out of a story, alluring and tempting, but also likely about to drag the viewer under the water. Dusk Mother and Dawn Father, help him. "There's more than enough water for both of us." 

Narin groans and lets his head thud against a rock, gently. Does not close his eyes, though he isn't certain whether he should try to keep his eyes on the scholar or not. "I'm much more tired than I thought I was," he mumbles, his heart beating in his chest like a trapped bird, but trying not to sound like he's making a stupid excuse this time. At least _this_ stupid-sounding excuse was unmistakably the truth "But I did want to swim originally." 

"Maybe the cold will help you wake up," G'raha says, tipping his head sideways, and Narin tries not to stare at his pale, bare throat, missing the necklace he's usually wearing. "It might be good for you." there's more than a little mischievous eccentricity in his voice, and Narin is afraid to see what he'll do next - right before he splashes him. 

Narin yelps in indignant shock - if he'd been sitting _on_ the rock, he probably would have fallen off it. That water is even colder than he remembers at this time of night- he almost wonders how G'raha can swim in it, just so casually, before remembering that he's originally from Ilsabard, in the north. Probably used to cold weather, even before he went to Sharlaya. "W-was that strictly necessary?" 

"It woke you up, didn't it?" G'raha asks, tail flicking arrogantly and scattering water droplets, and sits up, still up to his waist in the water. This close, Narin gets an eyeful of the fact that his nipples are stiff, because of the cold, and part of him _really wants to put his mouth on them_ , or on the tattoos at his neck, wonders how the scholar's skin would taste, and he desperately wants to be somewhere else, flee out of his skin. 

"T-thank you," he manages to say, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the Miqo'te's mismatched gaze, rather than risk looking anywhere else, manages to only stumble a bit on his words though he can't - and doesn't try to - hide his weary yawn. That cold water had been helpful in more than one way, really. "But I'm going to bed. Good night." 

This time - at least this time, and he's actually rather proud of himself - he manages to stand up and calmly walk away, rather than run away from G'raha. This time, anyway. 


	5. falling tenderly around him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closer and closer still. 
> 
> A gift, a lecture, and an off-handed comment. 
> 
> Also a confrontation against a twice-lived emperor.

On his way down from the Golden Sacristy, light glinting off an object catches Narin's attention: he hadn't seen it the first time, ascending, but the angle of the light from the setting sun filters through the crystalline windows just perfectly enough. Narin stops and looks around, makes sure that no one is looking, before he sneaks his way over to the corner where whatever it was rested, undisturbed since the Tower had sunk into the earth thousands of years before. The object is some kind of golden cube, with blue filigree around the edges, circles of some different color material set into each side, small in comparison to his hand: he can't tell by looking what the cube's purpose was, but it's certainly a very fancy cube. 

After a moment, he frowns, looking down at it. He _should_ just leave it there and not touch it, especially because he doesn't know what it does, but he promised G'raha to bring him something from the Tower if he found anything - and this is the first thing he's found inside the Tower itself that's both small enough to move and not immediately out to kill him. He doesn't think it's active after a bit more examination, as the inset circles are dull, rather than glowing, and Allagan technology always seems to be very obvious when it's functional. Maybe as long as he doesn't touch it, it'll be fine, just like the tomestones? Not that he really understands those, either, beyond their value to Rowena and the fact that G'raha reads so many of them and is always pleased to get his hands on a new one that he hasn't read yet. After a moment, he rummages through his bag, comes up with both a spare cloth, formerly jammed into an odd corner of his bag, as well as his empty herb-case. Gingerly, he drops the cloth on top of the cube and uses it to help him pick up the cube without directly touching it, takes a moment to wrap it even more up in the cloth, before he puts the whole thing into his herb case, firmly shutting the lid, and puts the herb case into the top compartment of his bag. 

Once that's done, Narin stands up and continues making his way back down the stairs, trying not to slip on gold-washed crystal. _(he is already so tired of gold-washed crystal, after all the weeks he's been here, fighting his way through floor by floor.)_ He'll have to rest early tonight: there's apparently not that much further to go before he reaches the throne room of the twice-lived emperor, though the technologist responsible for so many ills - including Xande's resurrection - stands in the way, and Narin expects both men to put up a formidable fight. It's not something he shrinks from, after all this time as an adventurer and the Warrior of Light, he's fought more than enough formidable foes. Strangely, he's most at peace during those times, past all fear or anxiety, a clarity of mind and purpose that he wishes he could have outside of fighting or being angry or healing. 

He takes a moment, once he emerges from the Tower, to gratefully look up at the sky. Narin's grown more used to four fixed walls since he'd left the Azim Steppe, as difficult and reluctant as he was to get used to it, but there's something just _wrong_ about the Crystal Tower. Beautiful, to be sure, and it might be different in someone else's hands, but he can feel the wrongness with every step he takes, the closer and closer he gets to the throne room. Nihilism made flesh and even the aether within those walls was thick and heavy with it, with the abyss crawling on his skin, creeping crawling _awful_ purity of purpose. It just feels... _wrong,_ in a way that he cannot put into words. 

"What did you see in there?" G'raha asks, from right behind him, and Narin tries - and fails - not to yelp in startled surprise as he turns to face him. Where had the scholar even _come_ from? He takes a moment to think about it, actually think about it, and realizes that G'raha must have been behind one of the pillars near the entrance for...probably quite a while, tucked into a depression in the side of the building. As close to the Tower as he can get without actually being able to go in, closer and closer each day despite his continued inability to go in. 

Narin does his best to describe what he'd seen, what he'd fought, as they walk together back towards the Find. It's become something of a ritual, over the time he's been exploring Syrcus Tower, to describe to G'raha afterwards what he'd seen, what he'd done, though he's certain that his lack of knowledge _about_ Allagan history isn't helping, here. He doesn't know what's important and what isn't, though he can see G'raha taking notes as he talks, careful and through, before he writes up some kind of report about whatever Narin had done that day, which still feels strange to acknowledge. Even after everything he's done, it still feels _strange_ to have to think about the fact that whatever he's doing is important enough for someone to write about it. 

"I'm not sure why there was a dragon in there," Narin finally admits, after having exhaustively gone over everything else he'd done, twice and three times, just to ensure he'd gotten all the details correct. He hadn't really had time to think about it while he'd actually been in the Tower, too busy trying to dodge as it dove at him, breathing fire, even as he drew from the aether surrounding him to knit his wounds and throw rocks at its wings, trying to bring it down before it did too much damage. "It seemed somewhat out of place." 

"Dragons came from Meracydia," G'raha explains, without prompting or him having to ask. "The empire overran and conquered Meracydia, and-" 

Narin does his best to listen closely, as they walk down the path together, and not be too distracted by the pleasant sound of G'raha's voice, soft and crystal-sweet, as he explains the Allagan empire's conquest of Meracydia thousands of years ago, the chain of terror and pain that ultimately led to that poor dragon in the Golden Sacristy, trapped and raging long after the empire of its captors had fallen to dust and earthquakes, blinded by terror and pain and grief until he'd brought it down. Remembers what he'd heard of the 7th Umbral Calamity once he'd come to Eorzea, of the maddened rage of the primal Bahamut, imprisoned for millennia by an empire that had died ages before, released by another empire that sought to bring the entire world under its sway: Bahamut's rage had been primarily directed at Eorzea, but the unbalanced shifts in aether had encompassed the whole world. The winters on the steppe had been killing-bitter after summer drought for several years in a row, and had only just begun to warm again when he'd left for Eorzea. What else had the Allagan Empire left behind, just waiting to be unearthed? More victims of its conquest, trapped for millennia, used for power and hurt so much that all they can do now is lash out? More dragons, hidden away somewhere, just waiting?

It must be a lot of trouble for G'raha to try to distill down all his knowledge into a form that Narin can understand, can follow along with, with his limited knowledge of the Allagan Empire's bloodstained, tragic history. He knows, from experience with his duties as an apprentice lorekeeper how difficult trying to explain to someone can be, with all the time he'd spent telling long-passed down stories of the Mol's history to their children at the fire at night, small fragments of their entire repository of oral history, and tries to keep up as best as he can. 

"I found something," Narin admits, quietly, once they've settled down at the fire. "I'm not sure what it does, but I brought it for you to look at." 

For a moment, G'raha's full lips part, soundless, struck. "You didn't have to-" he begins, and Narin shakes his head. 

"I made you a promise," he says, firmly - much more firmly than he usually speaks- and pulls his herb case out of his bag, offering it to the scholar. "It's in here. Not that I have...any idea what it does. Hopefully it won't...explode or something." 

G'raha takes the case and opens it, revealing the cube, and his lips purse in thought. "It's a spellcube." he says, after a moment's examination, though he doesn't touch it yet. "Only usable by Allagan royalty - or those who had the necessary permissions to work on the Tower. So, you'll be glad to know that it would just remain inert in the hands of most, including yours, and there is no risk of explosion." 

"...that's a relief." Narin says, letting out the breath he didn't know he was holding. "I wasn't sure on that or even what it did." 

"Taking precautions with artifacts is always a good strategy when dealing with them." G'raha says, tail flicking. "Whether or not they actually _can_ explode." 

"So what does a spellcube....do, in the right hands?" Narin isn't sure that he'll be able to actually keep up with the explanation, given that he doesn't actually know anything about Allagan history, but the little scholar always seems happier when he's able to talk about his pet obsession. And honestly, G'raha being even just a little happier is his own reward, even if he doesn't know anything and can't understand a word he's actually saying. 

"It essentially stores magical energy from the Tower." G'raha says. "Aether charges for a spell. Not all Allagan royalty were skilled mages without their connection to the Tower - and so when they had to venture afield from it's range, cubes such as these were used as energy storage so they could continue to cast their spells even with their low personal stores of aether. But even skilled mages found use for these as supplement to save their own aether stores for when they needed them most." 

Narin furrows his brow for a moment, thinking. "That sounds...convenient." he finally says, after a moment. "So would there be a lot of those cubes still in the Tower? I just found this one lying on a staircase." 

"Most likely," G'raha says, finally picking up the cube after a moment: it's so large in his small hands, as he turns it over, physically examining it. "Though I doubt most of them would be so easy to find as this one." 

For a moment, as G'raha examines the cube, Narin can almost swear that it faintly, so very faintly, glows under his fingers, the barest, dimmest spark, so dim and so brief that he thought he was just imagining things. 

"Then after this is done," Narin says, quietly, hesitantly, because even just thinking about it makes it sound stupid to his ears. "And I can take you into the Tower, would you like to look for some? I know there's a lot to see, but-" 

G'raha smiles, his all-too-familiar cat smile that promises mischievousness, his tail swishing. "You'll be seeing _quite a bit_ more of the Tower before you're done if you bring me in there." 

"...I can't say that I'll be of any use other than carrying things, but at least I can carry a lot of things?" 

After a moment, G'raha tilts his head consideringly. "I should have given you more of a lesson in Allagan history before this," he says, "Especially given who you'll be fighting tomorrow. But now is a fine opportunity to rectify that mistake - assuming that you are interested?" 

"...I would be really grateful if you did," Narin says, trying not to trip over his tongue. "But it wouldn't be any trouble to have to explain the basics to someone who doesn't really know anything beyond what you've already explained?" 

"Certain of my colleagues back in Sharlaya consider it beneath themselves to explain their work to someone who doesn't know the field and complain bitterly about having to teach introductory classes every year, assuming they can't pawn off those classes on junior scholars with very little standing or funding." G'raha says, archly. "But that just proves _they_ don't know their work anywhere near as well as they think they do, if they are unable to explain it to a layperson." 

"...so you wouldn't mind?" he asks. 

"Of course not." G'raha says, ears flicking - he's pleased by being asked to explain, or so Narin thinks. "Though I should find somewhere to put this before we begin. Somewhere where Rammbroes won't see, unless you want to not only explain to him how I came to be in possession of this, but endure one of his lectures about the proper care and handling of artifacts." 

"You can keep the herb case?" Narin offers, a bit sheepishly. "I don't need it at the moment, I used the last of my herbs, and I can make myself another if I do end up needing it."

"I'll give it back to you when I no longer need it." G'raha says, with all the confidence of a promise, though Narin doesn't particularly mind if he keeps it. He watches as the Seeker carefully puts the cube back into the herb case, blinking against what he thinks is exhaustion when he sees, again, that dim spark beneath the Miqo'te's fingers as he touches the cube just before he closes the case, putting it away among the rest of his things. "And now for your lesson." 

Narin pays close attention - or tries to - as G'raha starts explaining, to the shape of his words as well as to the sound of his voice, clear and soft, but he is so tired that he almost can't help himself. At least until a warm, slender body crawls into his lap and his heart is immediately racing, beating like a trapped bird in his chest. "W-what are you doing?" 

"Making certain that you pay attention," the scholar replies, archly, nestling against his side, and immediately goes back to explaining, as if he _wasn't_ perched in Narin's lap, slight weight distributed _just_ right. 

_Why is he like this?_ Narin thinks, half-frantically, trying to calm down his spinning thoughts: the problem isn't that he _doesn't_ like G'raha sitting in his lap, the problem is that he likes it _entirely too much_. And now he's even more aware of how fluffy G'raha's tail is, curled absently over his arm, as well as how cute his ears are _(though he'd already noticed that a long time before),_ and _especially_ how nice his ass is in the somewhat threadbare, much-too-patched-thin pair of tight pants he's wearing. _(If he ever gets any spare time, he should sew G'raha a couple of pairs of pants to replace his old, cheap clothing)_. And even more unfortunately, his traitorous cock is _also_ quite aware of that fact despite his exhaustion and he's half-hard in his own pants. "D-do you do this often?" 

"No," G'raha replies, smoothly, as if _he_ doesn't notice that fact _(and Narin doesn't believe that for a moment, of course he does)._ " _You're_ comfortable." there's something else beneath that statement besides the obvious fact that sitting on well-muscled thighs was comfortable, something softer beneath his normal aloof standoffishness, but it only lasts for a moment. A moment later, he even more smoothly shifts back to explaining about two of the most important figures in Allagan history, who Narin was going to put back into the grave tomorrow. 

Narin wants entirely too much and wants to flee out of his skin and only manages not to by forcing himself to pay attention to what G'raha is saying about the arcane might Emperor Xande had been known for both before and after death, especially his ability to drag the very stars from the sky to first threaten, then crush, those in his way. Lets himself be lulled by the sound of G'raha's voice, soft and crystal-sweet, and the evenness of his words over the span of several bells, a much more thorough explanation than he'd been expecting. He is so tired, so very tired, but manages to pay attention to not only the sound of his voice, but the shape of his words as well even as he's lulled towards drowsiness. Tired enough that finally, finally, finally, he almost doesn't think about what he is doing - softer, softer, too tired now for anxiety to touch him more than the usual low static buzz at the back of his head, and without thinking, he reaches out to stroke G'raha's hair, soft beneath his fingers. 

The scholar makes a soft, startled noise and shifts closer to him after a moment, nestles his head against his shoulder. There's hesitance in this, almost strange with his graceful confidence, almost strange at first until Narin takes an exhausted moment to think about it. About how aloof and held-apart he is, in everything, how distant and unhappy. Of how small gestures of affection are unexpected and the gentleness so rarely coaxed out of him and he runs his fingers more through red hair, entirely too clumsily, but G'raha doesn't seem to mind, leaning into the touch. 

Narin's not entirely sure how it happens, how the two of them end up curled up together on the ground, the Seeker half-draped over him, but it's pleasant and G'raha's weight on him is warm, even with a cool ill-luck wind blowing off the lake. He should, possibly, go back to their tent and lie down there. But surely it's fine to stay like this, out under the sky and the stars: he'd spent more than one night like this, out under the sky with the Mol flocks, before he'd left home and the Steppe behind to come to Eorzea. Surely it's fine to stay like this, to wait until morning comes, and he closes his eyes.

~~~

When Narin had been small at his mother's knee, before he'd grown up and learned anxiety, he'd reached towards the heavens, trying to grasp falling stars, entirely unafraid. Temulun Khatun had watched him and gravely nodded her head, ritually breathed in smoke and spoke to the gods for their counsel, for the shape of his destiny, and pronounced that his fate, the path that he would walk, would shape much and more even as he grew timid and grew up. But even as dealing with people, desires, wants racked his heart and considering his own desires grieved him, the heavens and falling stars had ever brightened his heart to see, to reach for though he would never succeed in touching them. 

The world within the Tower warps again at the twice-dead emperor's command, crushing darkness and poisoned silence and nihilism, that creeping crawling awful purity of purpose, descending. 

"I shall crush all who oppose me!" Xande declares, hovering above his much too gaudy, oversized blue crystal throne in a casual display of his arcane might from beyond the grave, as Narin pushes himself back up, eyes fixed on the out-of-place sky above as Xande's magic drags a star from the very heavens. Just as G'raha had warned the previous night.

 _Be not afraid of falling stars._

The echo of a recent memory comes back to Narin in this moment as he breathes in, breathes out, calm and centered. Calm and centered and in that familiar place within himself beyond all fear or anxiety that he finds both healing and on the battlefield, lifts his cane high and draws aether from around himself _(ignores that it's tainted and he'll be sick after this)_ to fuel his spells, the rough, harsh, rhythmic pounding of stone against meteor anchor, again and again and again until it shatters beneath the weight of sustained stone, shattering the magic that drags it down to earth. 

The air cracks, rushing outward cold and dark from the suddenly empty space as Xande tears open another portal, reappearing above the floor. He will not stop, Narin knows, unless he is made to stop, as insatiable for conquest in his second life as he was in his first - but a different kind of conquest now. To drag everything into darkness and the void with him, to make everything and everyone know what he knew, that all the world and everything in it was ultimately hollow and meaningless, to drag it down into _nothing_. But the world is not hollow or meaningless, no matter how much Xande or others like him try to make it so. There are things worth cherishing, worth believing in, worth _protecting_ \- 

_(I don't want a world without pain or loss. I just want them to mean something-)_

This is enough. More than enough. No one should have to live twice, to know what lies beyond death. No one. And Xande has lived entirely too long, cracked the world once already, brought almost the entire world under his heel in service of his own limitless ambition and power, and Narin will not allow him to do any more. No more. It was long past time to stop. 

"No more," he whispers, squarely facing the ancient emperor and lifts his cane again, flower opening, glimmering with pure light, a small star in the darkness. "It is time to _rest."_

Everything comes to an end. _Everything._


	6. someone who reaches out to my weakness (and won't let go)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _he says i need not to need/or else a love with intuition/someone who reaches out to my weakness/and won't let go_

Narin closes his eyes tightly against the light as the tent flap opens and tries not to groan, burying his face firmly into the cot. He hadn't thought about it _too_ much at the time, with the necessity of it, but drawing too much on and in the tainted aether in the Crystal Tower had indeed made him sick, entirely too sensitive to it. He needs to work on that sensitivity, clearly, as part of the duty of a white mage was rectifying those imbalances and impurities, but _that_ was a taint he could do nothing about, could not purify, could not do anything about until he dealt with its cause.

"Drink this," G'raha says, his voice clear in the silence, and tries to press a cool metal cup into his hand.

In response, Narin groans. He hasn't been able to keep anything down for over a day, entirely too nauseous, and stopped trying after a little while, entirely too tired of not being able to keep anything down.

"Drink it." the Seeker repeats himself, clear and firm. "You need to at least try to drink water. You're feverish."

In response, Narin mumbles something entirely indistinct,no more than a collection of syllables, into the thin pillow.

"What was that?" G'raha asks, and Narin tries to bury his face more into the bed linens. "Really, what _was_ that? I'm well-used to deciphering nonsense, given some of my colleagues and what passes for their work but that was beyond even them."

Maybe if he just lies here in silence with the pillow over his head, G'raha will give up and go away and let him lie here in absolute misery until his body and soul-stone process and purify that tainted aether . Maybe. Just maybe. He doesn't actually have much faith in that happening, given how gods-blessed _stubborn_ the little scholar is, but he can at least hope. Instead, a moment later, the cot creaks warningly as G'raha settles on it as well, the Seeker leaning over him curiously.

"You know I"ll just sit here all afternoon until you answer me, correct?" G'raha says, archly. "I brought a book as well as the water."

Narin just groans in response.

"My mistake." G'raha says, a moment later. " _Two_ books. And a basket of tomestones."

_Why is he like this._

Finally, Narin groans and pulls the pillow off his head, cracks open one eye and looks back at the one person who is a worse patient than him. "I'll be _fine._ " he mutters, trying not to hiss and failing. "Once my body does something about all the tainted aether I took in while fighting Xande."

"And how long will that be?" G'raha asks. "I'm no mage, but you had to have cast quite a few spells while fighting him. Which means-"

"Soon enough?" Narin grumbles, forcing himself to roll over, entirely ungainly between his size and completely uncoordinated limbs. "I know I need to practice working in areas with tainted aether, but I'll do that once I recover. But I'll be _fine."_

Instead of responding, G'raha shoves the metal cup against his mouth. "That wasn't what I asked." he says, just as Narin makes an entirely undignified noise of protest. "You still need to drink something, you've been sick for over a day at this point. Unless Xaela somehow _thrive_ on being absolutely parched and with drinking no water for over a day."

"If I drink it, will you leave me alone?" Narin groans.

"Absolutely not." G'raha says. "But at least you'll have water in you and I'll let you sleep for a few bells."

Narin knows when he has to make the best of a bad bargain and attempts to grab the cup out of G'raha's hand: instead, his aim is off and he flails around, unable to grasp it.

"I'll help you." G'raha says, gently, more gently than Narin is used to, from him, and presses the cup into his hand again, helps him close his fingers around it and bring the cup to his lips. There is infinite gentleness in his touch and while Narin's pride is a little stung by needing to be taken care of, it's been a long time since anyone has been so gentle or tender taking care of him. The Mol are a gentle people, but he's been among their strongest since he's entered adolescence, a more capable warrior than most of the boys his age even though he hadn't wished to be, made his gentleness into his strength and a shield for his tribe, his family. He hasn't needed to be taken care of in a long time, not like this.

Slowly, reluctantly, he takes a sip of water, feels the nausea roil in him though it feel so good on his dry tongue, on his parched throat, takes another slow sip once he's sure that he can keep it down. Easier on his stomach than the water he'd tried before and it takes him a moment to realize why, realize the difference on his tongue. Effervescent water. Pricey out here in Mor Dhona, where it has to be brought from the Black Shroud along with the other supplies for Revenant's Toll and correspondingly marked up, and for a half-hazy, half-delirious moment wonders where G'raha had managed to get the money to buy it, remembers his threadbare pants and the fact that he pours his money, what money he can get, mostly into books and tomestones.

It takes him longer than he'd like to finish the water, nausea still roiling in him, but G'raha takes the cup back once he's done and true to his word, lets him sleep. Doesn't stop him when he rolls back over, clumsily, and buries his head again under the pillow. He's so exhausted and hates being sick, hates feeling feverish, but it doesn't take long for him to drift off again into miserable, feverish sleep. At the edge of his consciousness, , he thinks he hears a voice, a light on the edge of sleep. Soft and crystal-sweet...a song? He can't understand the words, but he doesn't need to, really, but it sounds like a song, as he drifts off to sleep.

Much of the next day is a feverish, heated blur as well, punctuated by G'raha waking him up periodically to force more effervescent water down his throat before he lets him sleep again, troubled dreams that he's soothed out of by gentle hands and a soft voice, words he can't understand but doesn't need to. He wakes and sleeps and dreams, and finally awakens again hours later, feeling considerably better, far less feverish, but still unfortunately weak. After a moment of absolute confusion, especially when he hears soft, rhythmic words in a language that he can't understand, Narin looks up to see G'raha, his head bent over a book.

"Bwuh?" Narin asks, completely confused as he sits up, slowly, trembling, and unable to come up with anything more clever or witty.

After a moment, G'raha looks up, shutting his book with a firm snap. "So you're awake," he says, setting it aside. "Are you feeling better?"

"Y-yes," Narin says, trying not to stammer. "Thank you. How long was I...out?"

"The better part of two days," G'raha replies. "Long enough for me to finish the basket of tomestones, as well as the books."

Narin looks down at the floor of the tent by G'raha's feet, sees the large basket of tomestones as well as the strange apparatus he uses (with Cid's help) to read them and one of his many journals that he takes notes in. He knows G'raha can read quickly, he's watched him on more than one occasion, but if he was trying to take care of him, as well...had he even really slept, at all? Guilt and anxiety seeps in, prickling at the edge of his thoughts.

"D-did you take care of me for all that time?" he asks, fingers twining around each other, nervously, especially once G'raha nods. "...thank you. Especially since you didn't have to-"

"What is it that you keep saying to me? Oh yes, 'I wanted to'." G'raha says, tartly, turning his own words back on him.

Narin sighs, knowing that there is no way he can outtalk G'raha and really isn't even going to try. "...thank you, then." he says, just before G'raha shoves the metal cup, filled with effervescent water, against his mouth again, and the helpless sound of protest he makes is muffled against the metal.

"Drink it." G'raha says, soft and relentless, but this time, Narin manages to grasp the cup with trembling fingers and guide it away from his mouth.

"I can hold the cup," he says, and G'raha lets go, clearly having made his point. "But thank you?"

After he finishes the cup, G'raha refills it - first once, and then again, softly insistent that he finish it both times. "You need water," he says, archly, as if he hadn't made Narin drink every few hours over the last...couple of days, but his throat is dry and parched.

"Have you been drinking water yourself?" Narin asks, knowing _just_ how single-minded G'raha can be about things and how his own needs often fall by the wayside.

"...yes?" G'raha says, one slim red eyebrow lifting archly, but Narin doesn't entirely believe him. Instead, he snatches up the flask of effervescent water and pours it into the metal cup, setting it next to where G'raha is perching on his cot.

"I'll drink another," Narin offers, " _If_ you drink that."

G'raha rolls his eyes. "Trying extortion?" he scoffs. "It really doesn't suit you."

Despite his words, G'raha picks up the cup after a moment and sips lightly at it, hands folded over his closed book, just before he flips it open again to take more notes. Takes a few minutes to finish the cup himself, before he refills it and puts it next to Narin, very pointedly. "Do you think you can eat anything?"

"...food?" Narin asks, apprehensively, completely unsure whether he wants to even consider the idea of 'eating' any time this era ever again. "Um. I don't know."

"A moment," G'raha says, and then disappears out of the tent.

Narin stares after him, really, completely unsure about this. He's even more unsure when G'raha appears again several minutes later, holding a bowl that he guesses had been stored in the camp's makeshift ice chest, and a spoon, especially as the contents were some kind of completely unremarkable white...pudding?- he thinks it's a pudding, anyway - with lumps in it. Lumps. And he's not really that familiar with Eorzean food, but he's pretty sure that a pudding shouldn't have lumps in it. Probably? "Um. I'm not sure about this."

"If you can't keep it down," G'raha says, passing him the spoon and bowl. "I have more effervescent water."

He takes another moment or two to stare at it, wishing for any number of other things or the earth to swallow him up at this very moment, before he picks up the spoon and dips it into the pudding, before bringing it to his mouth. Pauses before finally just shoving the spoon into his mouth. And, gods, what on earth _is_ thispudding? It's the most impossibly bland thing that he's ever tasted in his life, so perfectly tasteless that he didn't even think this was possible. Easy on his stomach, definitely, because there is absolutely nothing in it that could possibly bother his stomach, other than being solid food, but terrible on his tongue, and he would much rather eat something with more flavor that he couldn't keep down instead of eating...whatever this absolutely tasteless thing is. Forces himself to swallow.

"...what is this?" Narin asks, cautiously, taking the spoon back out of his mouth.

"Rice pudding." G'raha says, settling back down where he was sitting, and Narin just stares at the bowl of 'rice pudding', and the lumpy mess stares back, or as much as an inanimate object without eyes could stare back. Finally, sighing, he dips his spoon back into the pudding and takes another impossibly bland bite. Forces himself to choke it down, extremely reluctantly, and followed by another.

"...is rice pudding _supposed_ to taste like that?" Narin asks, incredulously.

"Sharlayan rice pudding is." G'raha says, one ear pressing back against his head. "All food in Sharlayan is like that. Good for the body, but absolutely tasteless."

"...do Sharlayan people not believe in...flavor?" Narin asks, without thinking, and then apologizes a moment later. "Sorry, that was rude of me-"

G'raha laughs, the sound clear and light and short. "No, it's not a priority." he says. "Cuisine is studied, much like anything else, but none of that was for actually eating. The food is as neutral in taste as their philosophy on information is on...everything else important."

There's a bitterness in his tone, underlying everything, and Narin wonders. "I see," he says, carefully, and stirs the pudding, both trying to smooth it out and for lack of anything better to do. "So no flavor, at all, ever?"

"No." G'raha confirms, pouting without even thinking about it. "Except at fancy department functions, of course -" and there is a certain bitter sardonic bite, hidden beneath his words, "But good luck getting into those as a student. "

It's a completely different world than the one he's known, and Narin is already certain, from what little he's heard of what G'raha's described of it, and from what the Archons among the Scions had said, that he wouldn't like it at all. There's so much knowledge that Sharlayan has, at their fingertips...and yet their best and brightest are here, working on trying to preserve the world, without very much support at all. Couldn't they do so much good in the world with all of that?

"Where did you...get this, anyway?" Narin asks, cautiously. "Did you get someone to make it for you?"

"No," G'raha says. "I made it."

"You can cook?" Narin asks, trying not to sound too disbelieving.

"Not well," G'raha admits. "But I _can_ cook some simple dishes, mostly all things with actual flavor to them. It was cheaper than buying food already prepared, assuming I am somewhere that I _can_ cook."

"Oh," Narin says. It makes sense, now that he thinks about it, and he's grateful that G'raha took the trouble to make this for him, regardless of...what it actually is, or how it tastes. "...is this supposed to have lumps?" he asks, without thinking about it, immediately claps his hand over his mouth, and G'raha laughs.

"No, those are for character." he says, mischievously, closing his book again and standing up. "Try to finish that. Or at least the water."

Narin prods the rice pudding more, reluctantly, before he sighs and takes another bite, longing desperately for some flavor.

"...what were you reading to me?" Narin asks, finally, just as G'raha is about to disappear out of the tent flap again. "When I woke up, I mean. You were reading something and it sounded nice, though I didn't understand a single word of it."

"Oh," G'raha says, aloof and arch as ever, though there is something else under his tone, softer and more vulnerable, "It was just High Allagan love poetry."

And with that, he's gone, and Narin is left blinking after him.

~~~

Once Narin is finally back on his feet, he goes to look for G'raha. There's only a few places that the scholar would likely be, he thinks, and the most likely of them all is either in the vicinity of the Tower or in the throne room itself ( _hopefully he hasn't gone to explore other parts of the Tower on his own, or else Narin will never manage to find him in any kind of timely fashion)_. More likely the latter, assuming Rammbroes has given up on being able to keep him out of the Tower, which was highly likely given G'raha's refusal to be left behind this time, whenever they managed to find a way beyond the rift. 

The throne room itself is a flurry of activity, people bustling every-which-way: while Cid and his engineers had managed to stabilize the rift that was left behind for now, keeping the way between worlds open, actually making it _usable_ was another puzzle entirely. Narin is careful to stay out of the way and against a wall, knowing that at least for the moment, there is nothing useful that he can help with, at least not until they've managed to find a way into the void that lies beyond. Under the light of day - and without the press of Xande's nihilism-tainted aether, though the constant flow through the rift from the void is concerning in itself, if more contained than when Xande had been alive- the throne room looks almost entirely different, even before all the Ironworks equipment that was set up. Light glints off the water and if it weren't for the rift leading into the Void, as well as the entire blood-soaked history of Allag, the entire place would almost have a peaceful air. 

After a few minutes of looking around, actually taking in what he hadn't had a chance to see the last time he'd been in this room, fighting the twice-dead emperor, Narin glances over at the throne again, only to see G'raha standing somewhere by it, with his journal open, taking notes. Absolutely _anyone_ would have been small standing by the massive throne, even Narin himself or Rammbroes, but G'raha, already tiny of frame, is absolutely even _more_ tiny standing next to it, easy to overlook and hard to see. Narin wanders over that way himself, and it's easy to see that G'raha's attention is entirely absorbed by whatever he's looking at: he has to call his name at least three times and finally delicately taps G'raha's shoulder with one hand before the Miqo'te finally responds. 

"Oh, you're finally on your feet." G'raha says as he finally glances over at him, tail swishing, as he tilts his head. "Good. The noises you were making were somewhat...concerning." 

Narin sighs, but by now, is well-used to G'raha's moods. "At any rate, I've been idle long enough." he says. "Are you needed for anything here?" 

After another long moment, G'raha shakes his head. "I'm of no use to anything here at the moment," he says, glancing up again. Something about his attention is off, and Narin frowns. Somehow glassy, not at all there, and a prickle of worry runs clear and cold down his spine, just before G'raha snaps out of whatever it was. "Did you need me for something?" 

"Have you been able to go anywhere else in the Tower yet?" Narin asks: he's not sure _if_ G'raha has explored the Tower more in his absence or not. It's only been three days and G'raha had been taking care of him for at least two of those. 

"I haven't yet, no," G'raha says, lips pursing in thought, obviously deeply distracted by whatever he's focused on. It's not a surprise, given how he's finally able to be here, the focus of his life and obsession, even if he's only seen the staircase and this one room. It's something more than the 'nothing' he's been otherwise consigned to this entire expedition so far. 

"I was thinking of working on my tainted aether tolerance by purifying some of what must remain here," Narin says, trying not to trip over his tongue. "Would you like to come with me?" 

Immediately, G'raha's full attention is on him, full lips parting. "Of course I would," he says, eagerly, and the light in his mismatched eyes is bright and beautiful. He's so pretty normally, but he's actually _happy_ for once, genuinely _happy_ , not just enthusiastic or excited, and Narin can't take his eyes off him. "I've been waiting so long to see the rest of the Tower." 

His whole life, Narin knows, without him having to say, bent the entire arc of his life and existence entirely around ancient Allag and the Crystal Tower, and he's been so close to the Tower this entire expedition and only now does he get to see it. Without thinking about what he's doing _(because if he thought about it, the anxiety would well thick and harsh in his chest, in his throat, until he couldn't breathe)_ he reaches out an unnecessary hand - and after a moment, G'raha takes it. The scholar's hand is so small in his, delicate, graceful, and long-fingered, and Narin can already feel the anxiety welling up in him just looking at the difference in their hand size. 

"Well?" G'raha asks, impatiently, glancing up at him. "Or do you intend to stand here all afternoon?" 

"R-right," Narin stammers, trying not to trip over his own tongue, and starts walking, slowly, towards the door out of the throne room. "I don't really know where I'm going in here." he admits, a moment later. He'd only taken the most direct path each time he'd come here, the central staircase: there hadn't been time, or inclination, to look elsewhere. "So if there's anything specific that you want to see, you'll have to tell me where to go." 

For a moment, G'raha says nothing, lost in thought and consideration, and Narin just waits, patiently. There's so much the Seeker wants to see, most likely, all of the Tower, that trying to choose just one to start with must be overwhelming. Narin himself has never wanted anything so much _(and tries so hard to not want anything at all)_ , he can only _imagine_ what it must be like for G'raha, even as decisive and strong-willed as he tends to be. 

"Pick a direction," G'raha tells him, once they're out of the throne room and approaching the central staircase. "My ability to sense aether is nowhere near as sensitive as yours." 

"Bwuh?" Narin asks, confused. "But don't you have something specific you want to see?" 

"I came here to explore _all_ of the Crystal Tower," G'raha says, his tail swishing arrogantly. "And I will see all of it, no matter how long it takes." 

"...so that means...?" Narin carefully asks, and G'raha makes another impatient noise. 

" _Anything_ will do for a beginning, since I intend to see all of it, one way or another." he finally says. "Especially since you have set yourself to a task." 

Narin swallows, especially as G'raha turns his full attention on him. Reaches out to the aether around them, searching for any trace of nihilism-tainted aether, that awful, crawling purity of purpose. 

"This way," he says, pointing, down another side staircase. 

"Well, what are you waiting for, then? Go on," G'raha says, and Narin begins to walk, his boots ringing on the crystal floor, G'raha's softer steps echoing behind, and tries not to think of how nice this is. The rhythm of G'raha's voice, crystal-clear and crystal-sweet, as he explains various things they're passing, how his slender, bowstring-callused fingers feel twined in his, small but strong, even as blue crystal blurs into blue crystal. Of how he could just come back, make time for more of this, between all the things he has to do as the Warrior of Light, the never-ending battles against primals and other things, the politics, everything and everything so much larger than himself, larger than he'd ever thought to be. 

_(He could, couldn't he? Couldn't he? He tries not to want this. He tries not to want this so hard that his heart aches and his breath is caught in his throat. But G'raha's hand is warm and small in his, and the scholar is steady at his side. He tries not to want, but he wants this so much. He tries not to want but wants it anyway-)_

~~~

Bells - as well as a lot of walking and purifying- later, down a side staircase and another hallway, blue crystal like all the rest, is a pair of surprisingly plain _(at least compared to everything else in this ostentatious, even gaudy, tower)_ wooden doors with...some kind of room beyond it. Narin waits for G'raha to finish examining them, watching as he takes notes and sketches them in his journal before he pushes the doors open to reveal another blue crystal room, allows G'raha to enter the room first before he follows him in. This one has some kind of elaborate mural etched into the floor in gold, fourteen circles that he doesn't know the meaning of, and a large, blank mirror that takes up a portion of the far wall, with tiered steps leading from the mirror down to the floor, as well as more gold and gilt along the walls. Oddly, the aether in this room isn't tainted, as if Xande or his followers had had very little to do with this place, and after a moment, Narin instinctively flicks his tongue out to taste it, a habit he'd picked up when he'd first started learning conjury and one which none of his teachers, in either conjury or white magic, had ever been entirely able to break in him. On Narin's tongue, the aether is pure but somehow blank, as if waiting for someone to claim it, to shape it to their will and wish and personality - and after a moment, a prickle of premonition crackles, slow and warm, down his spine, as if the elder gods themselves are telling him to remember this place. 

It's beautiful but utterly baffling to him, but Narin doesn't want to interrupt G'raha's concentration to ask him if he knows what this room was used for, or theoretically used for and just patiently waits. 

"Do you know what this room is for?" Narin finally asks, and G'raha doesn't answer him for a moment. The Seeker's attention is clearly elsewhere and Narin doesn't worry until he sees G'raha's hand clutched in front of his right eye, an extremely unfortunately familiar gesture. Despite the fact that he knows, for certain, that his white magic won't have any kind of useful effect, he reaches for his cane anyway, because it's something he _can_ do, some way that he can try to help. If G'raha collapses again, like he had before, he can carry him out, and easily, but he hopes that it won't happen. 

After a moment, G'raha shakes his head as if to clear it, and lowers his hand, though his attention is still not all there and glassy. "Did you say something?" the scholar asks, a brief edge of vagueness creeping into his voice, so different than how he usually is. So different than the aloof arrogance, the precise brilliance, or even the brief moments of gentle vulnerability and Narin's heart almost seizes in his chest hearing it. "I thought I heard something...?" 

For a moment, Narin hesitates before he answers. He doesn't want to lie to G'raha, but he doesn't know how much the unvarnished truth will even _help_ in the situation. The historian is almost certainly _aware_ of how much worse some of his fits have become, even after a lifetime of the pain and headaches that his Eye has brought him, of chunks of missing time, even if he can't remember what happened during it. "...nothing important," he finally says, and G'raha's mouth curves bitterly. 

"You need not try to spare my feelings," G'raha says, after a moment, and looks away, briefly, before glancing back, long lashes sliding closed over his mismatched eyes. "In truth, the more I learn of the Crystal Tower, the less I am myself." his voice, as always, is clear as crystal and soft, but this time, uncertain, aloof edges gentled with pain, the admission reluctant. "Somehow, meeting those two clones has wrought great change in me. I am consumed with remembering...something. Something ancient, but ever so important." 

For a moment, Narin is almost frozen, uncertain of what to do or say. G'raha's entire life has been centered around Allag, around chasing the truth behind his family and their connection to the long-dead empire. Finally exploring the Crystal Tower, finally having a chance at understanding the secret that has haunted his family for generations, has brought him so much joy - but pain as well. And how much will it take from him before the end?

_(Will G'raha ever have anything to make him happy that doesn't hurt him as well?)_

Narin doesn't say anything - can't say anything. The words won't come. 

_(He doesn't want to want. But he wants to make G'raha happy, genuinely happy for once-)_

Instead, he reaches out, with deliberate thought, to take G'raha's hand, and doesn't let go. 


	7. where is safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain lizard has an Extremely Exciting Time. 
> 
> Extremely, extremely exciting.

Narin pokes his head into the tent that he and G'raha share and finds the scholar lying on his stomach in a nest of all their blankets, surrounded by books, as well as another couple of baskets full of tomestones.. A sight he'd seen often, over the months since this expedition had begun - though G'raha usually at least leaves his blankets alone, even while he's gone, as far as he knows. Both the irritated set of his ears, as well as the way his tail sways behind him bespeak the mood he is in, even before he says a single word.

"Should I come back later?" Narin asks, wringing his hands a bit nervously, and watches as one pretty ear flicks, turning towards the sound of his voice.

"No, no - _you_ can stay." G'raha says, aloof and arch as usual. Irritation underlies his soft voice, but it's irritation _not_ directed at him. After a moment, G'raha rolls over, turning to face him, and while the movement is graceful as usual, there's a stiffness in it- and Narin notices, _immediately_ , that not only is his shirt hanging off him on his left side, torn from the collar across the shoulder and only barely held on him by the fact that the right side is intact, but that the finger-shaped bruises on his waist, unmistakably left by a large hand and livid against his pale skin, are fairly fresh-looking.

Another of G'raha's occasional one-night stands, Narin's guessing, trying to figure out where is safe to look given that the torn shirt fluttering off G'raha's left side gives him much more of an eyeful of the Miqo'te's slim, lean body than he's comfortable with given how much he tries not to want him and completely fails in doing so. But one he's....not especially happy about given how irritated he is. "Are you...ah...alright?" Narin asks, carefully, wondering if he's going to need to track down a man at the Seventh Heaven and throw him out the door, depending on the answer G'raha gives to the question.

G'raha looks up from his book, tail swaying behind him. "I am fine," he says, the set of his ears softening a little. "But it was a waste of time I could have spent employed in much more productive work. Productive _and_ enjoyable, I should say, rather, instead of wasting my time in something both unproductive _and_ unsatisfying."

Narin winces, as he finally settles on rummaging through his bag for his sewing supplies. He'd have to take a closer look at G'raha's shirt to be certain, but he thinks he can mend it, or at least patch it with what he has on hand - though better still would be making him an entirely new outfit, really, with the state of his clothes, though he'd need both G'raha's measurements and cloth for that. There isn't time to gather the raw materials in order to spin and weave his own cloth, or make the dyes himself- when everything calms down, he promises himself, he'd do just that, to make G'raha something really nice - but the marketplace at Revenant's Toll likely has _outrageously_ marked up cloth. Good enough, for this purpose, at least. "That bad?" he finally asks, nervously.

G'raha sighs. "What I _wanted_ was a few hours of casual fun and physical pleasure." he says, wryly. "What I _got_ was a man who was well-endowed but was _convinced_ that was enough to make him Menphina's gift to any partner he had, convinced he knew how to fuck -" and there is that deliberate use of the vulgarity again, still strange to hear on his tongue and Narin can feel himself flush, "When he absolutely did _not,_ and nor was he inclined to listen. Cared only about his own pleasure and used me like a doll for it. _And_ he tore my shirt trying to get it off me."

For a moment, Narin isn't certain what to say: instead, he settles his hand on G'raha's right shoulder. He can hear the tightly-laced anger simmering below the surface in the little scholar's soft voice and letting him be angry about it seems the best, rather then trying to sweeten his temper with empty platitudes. Gods, _he'd_ be mad if he'd been in G'raha's shoes, nevermind that he's honestly mad about it now, and he's honestly tempted to see if he can get a description of that man from him. Forget throwing him out the door of the Seventh Heaven into the street of Revenant's Toll, Narin wants to pitch him into Silvertear Lake.

"Do you want me to throw him in the lake for you?" Narin asks - and G'raha laughs, short, brief, and startled. "No, really."

"There's no need for that." G'raha says, after a moment, though Narin guesses from the slightly less annoyed set of his ears he's at least a little pleased by the offer. _Has_ someone ever offered to do something like that for him? Probably not, given how he reacts still to being helped. "Sometimes it just happens that way, when I end up in someone's bed that I met at a bar. Sometimes it's _really_ good, sometimes it's fairly pleasant, most of the time it's fairly okay to mediocre, and sometimes it's like _that."_

Once he locates his sewing box, at the bottom of his bag, Narin sets it nearby and starts digging for a spare potion. He has a surprising number that he usually doesn't use, picked up and come across during his travels, but apparently _now_ that he wants to find one he can't. "...and what would you want?" he asks, carefully, not sure if he wants to hear the answer.

"I would rather have someone who doesn't know what to do but is willing to listen and learn and be taught than someone who doesn't know and won't listen," G'raha says, archly, looking _right_ at Narin,"But the only man I know who fits the first description either doesn't want me or has convinced himself that he doesn't."

Narin can feel himself blush sapphire, the flush so obvious against his skin, as he buries his face briefly in his hands and tries not to yelp and fails miserably.

"And if you didn't want me," G'raha says, tilting his head and his mismatched eyes shine in the lamplight, even with the hair perpetually covering his red eye. "You could have just said so instead of making excuses."

"...that isn't the issue." Narin says, fidgeting, his fingers twining around each other with a nervous little wriggle. "It's not that I didn't want you. If I _hadn't_ wanted you, it would have been easy to tell you."

The younger man's blue-green eye fixes on him. "Then what _was_ the issue?" he asks, warily, reaching for a particular stack of his notes. Narin can't make heads or tails out of any of his piles, it's all chaos to his eyes, but G'raha seems to know exactly what is in each pile and where to find it. His piles of books and baskets of tomestones are the same way and Narin has given up on trying to find anything for him, especially when he's still very slow with reading Eorzean, much less with his inability to make heads or tails of any dialect of Allagan.

"I'm not...good...at wanting things." Narin admits, finally, staring down at his folded hands in his lap. "It makes me nervous. I really wanted you, and...didn't know how to handle it. So I panicked and ran away."

For a moment, G'raha doesn't say anything, and Narin swallows nervously, fearing he has misstepped, but goes on regardless, the words spilling out of him and over his anxious tongue. "I should have come back to face you, the next morning, but I was too anxious to do that, too. I stayed away because I was afraid."

Narin watches the slow metronome of G'raha's pretty, fluffy tail as it sways back and forth, presumably with the rhythm of his thoughts, before staring down at his hands. He doesn't understand why he's like this, why ordinary things like talking to people or wanting things make him nervous, make him afraid, make him want to flee his body, when he is steady and past all anxiety when fighting or healing, in situations that make others quail.

"And yet you came back," G'raha says, his voice precise and clear, "When you could simply have waited and stayed away until you were needed at Syrcus Tower. And...you helped me at the bar that night, though you didn't have to _save_ me."

 _You didn't have to save me,_ the memory of G'raha's tart yet surprised words that night drift up, entirely unbidden. _I could have gotten rid of him myself._

"I would do it again," Narin says, without hesitation, one of the few things he wouldn't hesitate on. _I would go to the ends of the earth, to the bottom of the sea, if it came down to it._

One of G'raha's ears pins back against his head for a moment, as he looks away, back stiff with more than just soreness. "I would not be a burden," he says - softly, firmly, _bitterly_ , and the quiet bitterness, the loneliness that underlies it all, in his voice _stings._

There's so much that Narin wants to say, so many words caught on his unresponsive, tangled tongue. _You're not a burden,_ or _please let me help you_ , or even the warmth of stars in his eyes, his heart, every time he looks at him. But he can't get the words out. No matter how he tries. Instead, Narin drops down next to him, on his knees on the tent floor, and - much more boldly than he's ever been before, much more boldly than he would ever have thought of himself, boldly enough that at any other moment he might have tangled himself up in anxiety - reaches out to wrap his arms around G'raha, draws him into his embrace.

"You would never be a burden," Narin at last manages to say, lips pressed briefly against the nape of G'raha's neck. "Not to me. _Never_ to me."

Silence, save for the sudden, familiar sound of rain against the tent. Gradually, gradually, he can feel as the tension, the stiffness, in G'raha's body slackens, as he relaxes in his arms, and the fluffy warmth as the Seeker's tail winds around his arm.

"You should try to be charming more often," G'raha says, finally, though he isn't certain that G'raha _believes_ him, that he managed to reach his heart . "It suits you."

It takes a moment for him to realize what G'raha means, to actually _think_ about what he'd done, that brief, entirely impulsive kiss to G'raha's neck, but when Narin realizes, he immediately groans and tries to bury himself in the Seeker's books out of sheer embarrassment and anxiety.

"Be careful with those!" G'raha immediately scolds him, managing to gracefully slip free of his (loosened) embrace in order to try to take books out of his reach and winces briefly at the quick motion. "They're fragile."

"Sorry, sorry," Narin apologizes, and instead just buries his face in his hands, briefly, only briefly this time, just as G'raha moves his books to a slightly better pile. The wince had been brief, but it's also a continued reminder that G'raha is much better taking care of his books and tomestones than he is for himself, puts taking care of his own needs fairly low on his list of priorities, a silent tendency that he's noticed over the months of this expedition. "Are you _certain_ that you're alright?"

"I'm fine," G'raha says, tail lashing a bit in faint annoyance at the repeated question, though the set of his ears faintly bespeak that he's not _only_ annoyed. "Just sore." Narin begins to reach for his cane, but the Seeker interrupts him. "Don't waste a spell on me. I simply need to stay out of anyone's bed besides my own for a day or two. It wouldn't be the first time this has happened."

Instead, Narin goes back to rummaging in his bag, continuing to look for a potion and so far coming up completely without one. Damn, what does he have in here, rocks that ate potions? Maybe he should consider cleaning it out one of these days. "Does this happen...often?" he asks, carefully.

"Remember how I told you that I liked challenges?" G'raha says, with a coy, knowing look over his shoulder as he opens his book again, and Narin can feel his face heat. He absolutely _could not_ forget that, especially since G'raha had been sitting on his lap and had his hand on his cock _while saying it. "_ While that describes my preferred intellectual stimulation, I wasn't referring to scholarly endeavors at the time." the cat smile in his voice is clear, and Narin is reminded of his second sister's pet kitten _(though he would never make the comparison out loud. or behind G'raha's back)._ Small, cute, endearing, absolutely determined, relentless as it attempted to stalk a bird bigger than it was. "Given how small I am, and the...challenges...I sometimes choose to take on, this is rather...inevitable."

Narin can feel himself turn sapphire as he immediately picks up on G'raha's meaning and tries not to bury himself in the blankets: instead, he busies himself trying to find the potion. "R-right." he finally says, just as he actually finds what he's looking for. "Um, here." he says, and tosses G'raha the potion, watches the Seeker catch it, full lips parting in a perfect, surprised circle.

"Oh, thank you." he says, but just holds the glass bottle in his hand, not drinking it.

"I-is something wrong with it?" Narin asks, anxiously, trying not to wring his hands and fails, just as G'raha shakes his head.

"I could drink it, but for this purpose, a...topical application is best." G'raha says, tail swaying behind him. "Though if you ever find Garlean-made potions, never try that with them."

Narin opens his mouth, then closes it, opens it again and then closes it. He knows what G'raha _means_ , more than healer enough for it, but these words coming from him hit him differently then they would from someone who he _wasn't_ attracted to. "I, um, s-see." he manages to say and is certain he's managed to turn an entirely different shade of blue somehow. Tries not to think of the unfortunately lurid mental images that come to mind immediately, of G'raha with his slender fingers inside himself, but can't help it, can't tear his mind away no matter how he tries. Or, worse yet, of his fingers inside the little scholar, filling him up, spreading him open. 

G'raha, however, takes pity on him, at least for a moment. "I'll wait until you're not here to take care of that," he murmurs, tilting his head back. It's a hint, though not quite a dismissal, and Narin swallows.

"R-right." he says, and stands up. "...one thing and I'll be out of your way." he says, more than a little sheepishly.

"What is it?" G'raha asks, glancing his way.

"Um, your shirt." Narin says. "I can patch it, at least-" he offers, timidly, trying not to wring his hands. After a moment, G'raha sits up and takes off his shirt, revealing to Narin's eyes a good deal of his lean, willowy body, all sleek, wiry muscle under deceptive slightness, and he has trouble looking away - at least not before the Seeker tosses what's left of his shirt at him. Narin manages to catch it but only just barely, feels the fabric beneath his fingers, once-thick, well-made cloth worn thin with time and wear. G'raha had likely purchased it secondhand, or possibly even third or fourth-hand, from whoever had owned his clothes beforehand. It definitely hadn't been made for him, because while the shirt fits him, it doesn't fit him as well as one made to his measurements would have.

"You can sew?" G'raha asks, one ear flicking curiously, tail swaying.

Narin nods. "Not as good as I would like to be," he says - he has never been, no matter how hard he tries, even as other fine cloth sometimes takes shape under his hands, even as he thinks of the design in his sketchbook that he doesn't have the skill to bring to fruition but wishes, wishes so much that he did, thinks of G'raha draped in elaborate Hingan silks, slender and graceful and achingly beautiful. Tries not to think about another image that comes to mind, still G'raha draped in elaborate, exquisite silks but far more diaphanous and translucent, that show nothing but reveal everything but can't tear his mind away. "Good enough to repair clothing, at least."

"If you were able to fix _this_ ," G'raha says, ruefully, as he settles back down and Narin tries not to look too much at the curve of his back, of the lean muscle of his shoulders. "It would be nothing short of a miracle."

"I'll see what I can do." Narin says, and turns to leave the tent, but doesn't quite make it before G'raha's voice cuts through the stillness and he glances back, instinctively.

"Have you considered fantasizing?" G'raha asks, quietly, and Narin tries not to bury his face in his hands this time, though he can at least tell that G'raha isn't trying to be coy this time. "If trying to actually _attain_ the things you want is what's worse for your anxiety...you can just want something without trying to have it, that way."

 _But all my fantasies are of you,_ Narin thinks but does not say.

"...and they don't have to be sexual," G'raha adds, his voice still quiet. "It can just be something you want. Something that you've held onto for years and have no hope of attaining."

G'raha's gaze trails away, long lashes sliding closed over his eyes, and Narin wonders what _his_ fantasy is. A faint pink blush colors his pale skin - and Narin knows then that whatever it is, whatever desire G'raha holds hidden in his guarded heart, is _not_ sexual. He's never seen him blush about anything sex-related, but the closest he's ever come to blushing has been moments involving actual, genuine affection. The moments he soaks up like a flower denied the sun, hidden beneath layers of aloof arrogance and bravado.

What _is_ it that G'raha wants, that he has no hope of attaining even with all his skill, his intelligence and knowledge and passionate determination? For a moment, the unbearable pressure of the Echo almost beats against Narin's head like a caged bird beating its wings against its cage - but the vision never materializes as moments later, the pressure slackens, like a promised storm that never materializes. G'raha's heart hides his secrets well - or simply that he does not want to be understood, has given up the possibility of being understood, and Narin isn't certain which possibility he hates more.

 _Please,_ he thinks. _Please let me-_

But the Echo is silent.

That night, once he finishes mending G'raha's shirt, patching it back into functionality, Narin lies in his still-strange bed in the Rising Stones and tries to fantasize, his hand on his cock. Thinks of G'raha wearing the realized design in his sketchbook with flowers in his unbound hair, the second copy of the blossom ornament hidden in his bag, of him spread out beneath him on a bed of flowers, open to his hands and mouth and cock. So very tight around his fingers, his cock, but it's not long before those images shift, the sexual interspersed with other moments. Of genuine, gentle smiles that reach his mismatched eyes, briefly dispel the too-hidden sadness beneath aloof arrogance and enthusiasm about ancient Allag, of genuine _laughter,_ of G'raha truly _happy_ in a way that doesn't hurt him, and Narin wants that more than anything, wants to be the one to make him happy,

 _Please,_ he thinks, half-dazed, as he spills over his own fingers, _please, I want-_

~~~

It's still raining the next day. Narin pokes his head back into their shared tent to see G'raha still reading and he hopes that the little scholar at least tried to get some sleep, though he isn't exactly hopeful about that fact.

"Um," he says, trying to get G'raha's attention. "I brought you your shirt back,"

After a moment, G'raha sits up, and Narin has to do his best to keep his eyes on his face and not look lower, to where he's still shirtless, all pale skin and defined, lean muscle, has to keep his hands from settling on his slender waist. "You didn't really have to do that," he says, sounding a bit disbelieving. "There wasn't enough really left to patch-"

Narin offers him the garment. "I had to get creative," he admits. "Though I'm not certain if it'll hold through anything strenuous."

"Even doing this much was a miracle," G'raha says, brightening a little bit as he takes the shirt. "Thank you."

"Wait," Narin says, trying not to wring his hands nervously as G'raha pauses, just about to put the shirt back on. "I'm not sure it will hold for even practicing your archery, much less-"

"None of my spares are _quite_ up to wearing for anything...active," the scholar ruefully admits - which seemed likely, given the state of the cloth of the one he'd repaired. Purchased hand-me-downs, all his clothes, which Narin expected from someone with very little money, most of which he didn't spend on himself, and no skill with a needle. "But I can probably find someone selling something secondhand-"

"I can make you new clothes," Narin manages to interject, and watches G'raha's full lips part into a startled little 'o', and manages not to wring his hands by instead busying himself with first finding and then pulling his cloth measuring ruler from his bag.

"You don't have to-" G'raha begins, a phrase Narin is _very_ tired of hearing from him.

"I want to," Narin says, firmly. "But I'll need your measurements first." he pauses, and adds, a moment later, awkwardly. "Um, but I'll need you to take your pants off, so..." and he gestures with the measuring ruler awkwardly: G'raha laughs, briefly, though not unkindly, a gentle, teasing sound.

"How very forward of you," he says and stretches, slowly, like a cat. Narin bites his lower lip, watching, feeling the static of anxiety buzz low in the back of his head: he wants. He wants _so much_. "You should be forward like this more often."

Narin tries his best to _not_ yelp, pained and anxious, and entirely fails, though he is grateful at least that his voice is too deep to squeak. Tries not to wring his hands, almost fails, but instead winds the measuring ruler around his hands instead, trying to give himself something to do.

Finally, G'raha takes some semblance of pity on him and slides his pants down his hips, kicks them off and just stands there in nothing but his smallclothes, black shorts. Narin has seen him entirely naked before, the time when he'd come upon him bathing in the lake, but most of his view had been the full length of G'raha's back. Somehow it's even worse now, with G'raha's teasing cat smiles and the way his expressive ears flick, but he manages not to make any more pained, anxious noises, is careful to not touch him any more than he has to in order to take his measurements. Measure twice, cut once, is what he remembers, and he tries to take G'raha's measurements as accurately as possible, to keep his hands from trembling when his fingers brush pale skin. Tries to ignore the fact that his hands can span the Miqo'te's slender waist, wrap all the way around, and can't entirely look away

"T-there," he says, finally, manages not to drop the measuring tape as he pulls his hands away, feeling almost burned, as he turns around. "You can get dressed again," 

After a moment, he can hear the rustle of cloth as G'raha begins getting dressed, and fixes his eyes very firmly on the other side of the tent. Does not watch. "Do you have any color preferences? I don't know what Revenant's Toll has available for cloth, but-" Narin thinks about his clothes, the fact that G'raha looks _good_ in red and black, and wonders what other colors would suit him, though he knows that the marketplace isn't likely to have very much selection. Other colors are for when he has the time to make G'raha the nice clothes he wants to, with everything that goes into every stitch down to the dyes gathered and made himself, when he has the luxury of time to consider. 

"Whatever you find is more than good enough," G'raha says, and Narin can still hear him pulling on his clothes, the last bits settling into place. "It's more than enough that you're even doing this for me to begin with." 

Narin takes a moment to peek over his shoulder to see if it's safe, making sure G'raha is dressed, before he turns around. 

"So considerate," G'raha teases, gently, his tail flicking a slow metronome behind him. "You are easily the most considerate man that I have ever met." 

"R-Right." Narin says, and tries not to wring his hands. "I'll go get the cloth, then, and leave you here to read, then-" 

"Wait," G'raha says, quietly but firmly, as he reaches for his battered satchel and tucks a notebook inside it, setting aside the book he had been reading, as well as his small and (likely rather light) purse. "I'll go with you." He hadn't expected G'raha to want to come along, especially since it was raining and he had work to do, though the scholar's reasons were almost immediately apparent a moment later. "I haven't seen if Rowena has new tomestones in stock recently." 

Narin almost offers to check for him, but knows that G'raha won't allow him to go _that_ far, even without taking into account that Narin doesn't know anything about tomestones. "Right," he says, a bit more confidently. When he'd come back from the Rising Stones, he'd brought the oil-paper umbrella that he'd bought during his brief sojourn in Kugane with him, following the vague feeling he'd had that night that it would be useful in the near future. He still isn't sure why he had even bought the umbrella in the first place, but he'd carefully brought it with him on the long journey to Eorzea from Kugane. Carefully propped it up in every inn room he'd stayed in since he'd arrived, from Ul'dah to Limsa to Gridania and back again, and when the Scions had moved to Mor Dhona, he'd left it in his room in the Rising Stones, in the same corner that had by now turned into a ritual. 

He still doesn't need an umbrella, but G'raha, with his paper books and whatever else is in his satchel, does, and so Narin picks the umbrella up from where he'd put it just inside the tent's entrance. "When you're ready, then." The quick, bright smile that G'raha flashes him - briefly unguarded, briefly untouched by aloof arrogance - warms Narin to his bones, even with Mor Dhona's cool climate and the even colder rain. 

~~~

The umbrella feels strange and awkward in his large hand, so delicate, as the two of them walk down the path towards the marketplace in Revenant's Toll. Narin is careful to try to keep pace with G'raha's far shorter and still a little stiff stride, though he can tell that the scholar is more than a little impatient from the way his tail swishes and one of his ears flicks. Impatient with who, he half-wonders, though it's likely that G'raha is being impatient with _himself_ for holding him back. Narin doesn't mind, though: it's not often that he gets to just walk with G'raha like this, both of them busy and with everything that Narin has to deal with as the Warrior of Light _and_ as adventurer taking him away for days or even weeks at a time. The last time had been when he'd taken G'raha to explore the Tower, their hands entwined, much as they are now, that peaceful, gentle afternoon, a calm moment in the midst of chaos. 

_(we whom gods and men have forsaken shall be the instruments of our own deliverance-)_

For a moment, the memory of Iceheart's voice, as well as the bitter, bitter cold of the Akh Afah Amphitheater and the Lady of Frost, colder by far than even what Mor Dhona or the killing-bitter winters on the steppe after the Calamity could offer, rings inside his head, sinks into his bones, and Narin has to shake his head to clear it, though the steady warmth of G'raha's small, slender hand in his helps bring him back to himself, though even that warmth cannot entirely banish the cold. It has been several weeks since that fateful meeting and battle in Coerthas, and in the quiet spaces, the quiet moments, it haunts him, especially as he cannot make the pieces fit together properly. 

"Are you alright?" G'raha asks, peering up at him, mismatched eyes thoughtful, and Narin realizes that he'd stopped dead in the middle of the square of the settlement. 

"Y-yeah." he says, after a moment, and G'raha makes a skeptical sound. "Sorry, I guess I was...just lost in thought." 

"What were you thinking about?" G'raha asks, soft and crystal-sweet, and Narin is almost lost in the intensity of his gaze, even with his red eye mostly hidden under his long bangs. 

"Um," he says, and realizes that he sounds more than a little stupid. "I had a lot of stuff on my mind and I can't really make sense of it." 

"Do you want to talk about it?" G'raha asks, and Narin shakes his head. 

"No." he says and glances away, briefly, though not fast enough to miss seeing something _sharp_ and sad in G'raha's eyes. He's careful to clarify, though, after an awkward moment. "Um, I'm not ready _yet_ to talk about it, mostly since I don't really...know what I think, yet. There's so much happening and everything's so much bigger than I thought it would be, when I became an adventurer. When I left home." 

"Isn't that part of being a hero?" G'raha asks, and for a moment, his words from when they'd first met drift up, a memory recalled. _It is those with an unyielding will who define the course of history._

"I'm not a very good hero," Narin mumbles. Whoever heard of a _hero_ who was timid, shy, and constantly tripping all over themself with anxiety, as he does nigh-constantly except in the moments that he is called on to be more than that, to fight or to heal or both? He's certain that someone, _anyone_ else, could do a better job of being the Warrior of Light than he could - so why had _he_ been chosen? Why had he, of anyone in his tribe, been marked for whatever his destiny is supposed to _be_?

"No," G'raha says, his soft voice firm as his tail swishes, insistently, and Narin's eyes are drawn to the motion, distracted all over again by how cute his tail is, how soft and fluffy it looks. "You _are."_ soft and unyielding, and Narin remembers all over again that he is a historian, who prefers to chronicle the exploits of the mighty, those who defined the course of history. _(What would G'raha write about him, if he is so insistent that he is a hero, in years to come?)_ "And someday, your deeds _will_ be in the books written about this age." 

Narin can feel himself flush pale blue with embarrassment. "Um." he says, and is glad that his tail can't swish to tell his moods. It's already bad enough that he's so pale that any blush would be immediately obvious. "C-could we talk about something else? Anything else?" 

He doesn't know what he wants to talk about, just anything besides what he was thinking about, the jumbled mess of his own thoughts, or about the possibility of him being a _good_ hero, something, anything else. It might be nice if G'raha talked about whatever facet of the Allagan Empire he was reading about, or really anything he feels like talking about: he really likes hearing G'raha explain Allagan history, even if he doesn't really know anything besides what G'raha's explained to him. 

Instead, G'raha smiles, another of his mischievous cat smiles. "I'll give you something else to think about," he says, as he lets go of Narin's hand and Narin has a brief moment to wonder just what he's planning, wonders what he has in mind, before G'raha's small, strong hands are briefly on his waist, _just_ long enough for Narin's blush to deepen a shade or two, brighter blue against his pale skin. And then the Seeker is literally _climbing_ him, as if he were a tree, all the grace, honed athleticism, and lean strength in his deceptively slight body fully on display, and all Narin can do is sputter entirely uselessly, especially once G'raha's slender legs wrap around his waist just long enough to give him leverage. What is he _doing_? 

Anxiety flares in the back of his head, especially as Narin's mouth goes dry and his cock half-hardens in his pants _(thankfully hidden by his crimson robes)_ and he suddenly wants those slender, strong legs wrapped around his waist for another reason entirely. Too conscious of the fact that there's a wall _right over there_ , in what passes for an alley in the small settlement, that he could just take G'raha right over there, just hold him pinned up against the wall, and- _gods_. He can't breathe for a moment, caught between anxiety and lust, and if it weren't for the fact that he still has to hold the umbrella to keep G'raha and his satchel dry, he'd just throw the thing aside and let himself get soaked by the cold rain. Instead, he tries to summon up the memory of the cold lake water against his skin as a half-substitute for _actually_ soaking himself in cold water, just as G'raha -satchel and all- settles to sit on his shoulders, pretty legs draped over him, and grabs the umbrella from his hand to hold it himself. 

"W-was this what you had in mind?" Narin yelps. 

"You're thinking about something else now, aren't you?" G'raha says, smug cat-smile evident in his voice, as Narin groans. 

~~~

In the end, the shopping trip is fruitful. Narin has several yalms of cloth tucked away into his bags - as he'd anticipated, the small market in Revenant's Toll, run under Rowena's auspices, didn't have much selection in the way of cloth, but he's able to get what he'd wanted in the first place. New, well-made, sturdy cloth, exceedingly marked up from what it would have cost in Ul'dah, and Narin thanks the gods he'd managed to distract G'raha by getting him on a tangent about 'poetics' and the Allagan Empire just before he'd handed over entirely too much gil, manages to keep him from knowing exactly just how much money he'd spent on him. The last thing he wants is for G'raha to get stubborn about the whole matter, especially because coaxing him into allowing Narin to make him clothes in the first place had been difficult enough, he _really_ didn't want him to know the exact sum and try to refuse the clothes. He's so....elusive...about having things bought for him or given directly to him, Narin's realized: the duck had been expensive, but the fact that Narin had been eating it, too, had been enough _(besides the potential for eccentric mischief)_ to overcome his reluctance to accept things given to him - and only to him- that he deemed too nice or too expensive or both. 

"Did you get what you needed?" G'raha asks, finally, once he's done explaining some obscure point that went completely over Narin's head, though he was more than happy to listen to him anyway. 

"Enough, with some extra to spare." Narin says, and tries to ignore how the two of them are getting stared at by what few shoppers were out in the rain. Of course they're getting stared at, he's an obvious foreigner and Au Ra are still rare in Eorzea, even after the arrival of the Doman refugees, even before taking into account the Seeker of the Sun perched on his shoulders. G'raha's tail is wound around his neck like a scarf, soft and warm against his skin and he resists the urge to reach up to pet it "Rowena's next?" he asks, even as he hopes against hope that G'raha would _not_ want to go to the House of Splendors, has had enough shopping for the day. 

Narin's more than a little afraid of Rowena, as well as the web of debts and favors she has managed to ensnare him in, but G'raha lights up at the thought of perusing her collection of tomestones and his excitement over his _very favorite topic_ , his obsession, is too much to resist. Carefully, he kneels down on the ground in front of the entrance to the House of Splendors just long enough to let G'raha hop off his shoulders, watches as G'raha closes the umbrella and hands it back to him. 

"I'll wait out here," Narin says, and G'raha tilts his head inquisitively, knowing his frequent trips to the House of Splendors to trade tomestones for new Ironworks-forged armor, piece by piece. He pays for each piece in a small fortune in salvaged tomestones that G'raha covets - not for the value but for the knowledge. Maybe he should work harder, set some of those aside specifically for G'raha, while he continues to pay for his armor with the rest. 

"You won't come in with me?" the scholar asks, pouting a little. 

"Rowena doesn't really like having people hang around who aren't buying anything," Narin explains. "And I _definitely_ don't have enough to buy anything right now." 

"Isn't _everything_ you're wearing bought from her already?" G'raha points out archly, briefly catching his glamoured, crimson sleeve between two fingers. "Except for-" 

"Except for those, yes." Narin cuts G'raha off, hastily, already feeling his face heat a little. "That still doesn't change the fact that I can't buy anything _today._ I'll wait for you in the hallway." 

Narin settles down in a corner of the hallway to wait for G'raha - he doesn't expect him to be done browsing through the selection of tomestones for sale anytime soon. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets himself drift, listening to the still-unfamiliar steady beat of the rain against the roof and misses the sound of rain against felt, misses the rain on the steppe and lying in the pasture with the sheep. It's so unusually quiet in here, so quiet and still that he can almost hear the beat of his heart, the flow of blood in his veins. Silence and stillness save for the sound of the rain against the roof and gradually, gradually, Narin can feel his eyelids growing heavy. He doesn't mean to fall asleep, but he does. 

Dreams of rain and wind and steady sweet warmth by his side, of G'raha's crystal-sweet voice and the barest, briefest moments of genuine laughter, so bright against the cold- 

"Well, if it isn't one of my best customers." the sound of Rowena's voice immediately shocks him out of sleep with a surprised yelp. "My hallway isn't a place for sleeping, but since you're such a good customer, I'm willin' to forgive you just this once." 

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to-" Narin stammers, sitting bolt upright and trying not to either wring his hands or yelp more. 

"What brings you into my shop today?" Rowena asks. Narin wrings his hands nervously, knowing that he didn't come to buy anything _(and knowing that Rowena is going to throw him out the moment she realizes)._

 _"_ Um," Narin says, even more awkwardly. "I just, uh, came with someone." 

Rowena's sharp gaze settles on him, and Narin tries to resist the urge to squirm like a child half his age being dressed down by an elder. He manages to avoid squirming, at least, but he knows from the look in her eyes that she's plotting something. Something that he won't like very much. "You came with that red-haired Sharlayan boy that likes buyin' tomestones, didn't you? The Miqo'te?" 

Narin nods, already feeling uncertain, and isn't sure that he should have admitted it. 

"Well, your boy doesn't have enough money to buy near the amount of them that he's lookin' at. Scholars like him always have eyes too big for their wallets, an' they can never pay." Rowena informs him, and Narin nearly squeaks at the description of G'raha as 'his boy', _especially_ coming out of Rowena's mouth, and is only saved by the fact that his voice is much too deep to squeak . 

"He's not- I mean, we're not-" Narin sputters, realizing entirely too late that anything he says puts him even more on dangerous ground. He should have escaped already, just gotten up and run right past Rowena, but it likely wouldn't do him any good. For all he knows, she has elaborate traps built into the floor and ceiling of the House of Splendors for thieves and people that try to escape from her. 

"Don't try to pull that nonsense on me, 'bout him _not_ bein' your boy." Rowena scoffs. "I an' all my employees saw the two of you, carryin' on out there. " she leans closer to him, as if to whisper conspiratorially,, and Narin feels a shiver run down his spine, though he manages not to scoot back."Since you're both such good customers, I might be willlin' to help you out a little. Let you buy some of those old tomestones he's lookin' at a little one-time discount." 

Narin pauses to think about it - he shouldn't. It's not actually generosity on Rowena's part, he's certain, especially because the tomestones that she's selling are the ones that the House of Splendors no longer deals in, the ones she finds no longer profitable, and so they're just taking up space unless she can manage to sell them to either collectors or scholars like G'raha or Rammbroes. He really shouldn't, especially since he's trying to save up his little pile of tomestones in order to get the cane she has on order from the Ironworks - but then he thinks of G'raha's brief, genuine smiles, gentle and actually reaching his eyes. The rare moments in which he is happy, actually happy, and hesitates, trying not to make an unsure sound and failing miserably. 

Unfortunately, he realizes his mistake moments later: predators hone in on any weakness, and Rowena pounces on his uncertainty as swiftly as Erdene does her prey. "This is a one-time only deal," she repeats herself. "What do you say?" 

"I-I don't think I have enough-" Narin stammers, hoping that admission will manage to throw Rowena off the scent. 

"How much _do_ you have?" she asks, leaning closer still, and he realizes a moment later that he is, in fact, entirely doomed, because Rowena can smell the potential for profit from three hundred malms away at least and will never let a potential sale go, unless she's managed to weave the poor unfortunate into a web that only manages to further benefit her somehow _(the worse fate, as far as he knows)_. This time, Narin yelps and flails backward, back slamming into the wall behind him, and he knows he's trapped, just as his tomestone pouch falls out of his robe pockets and falls open when it hits the floor. 

Rowena raises one eyebrow. "Haven't you ever heard the sayin' that 'a fool and his money are soon parted'?" 

It's not a saying that Narin had heard before coming to Eorzea, until he'd gone to Ul'dah for the first time as Kan-E-Senna's emissary. He hadn't really had much to do with money or commerce until he'd left the Steppe, as the Mol were not merchants and mostly tried to keep to themselves. Occasionally, he'd gone to Reunion to trade with the Qestiri, but their silence was reassuring and familiar - and not conducive to learning any silent proverbs they may have had on the matters of prudence in money and trade. But he certainly feels that this foreign saying is more than apt right about now: he most certainly _is_ a fool, and Rowena will part him from his tomestones one way or another. Sighing, he picks up his tomestone pouch and doesn't even need to look in order to sense her avaricious eyes on it, takes another moment to think about it, to think about G'raha's smile, knows he will do anything, anything at all to make him happy even if only for the briefest moment, even if it isn't his right to try-

 _(please. please, I want-)_

Narin doesn't look as he hands his tomestone pouch over to Rowena, listens to the sound of the tomestones clink together as she counts them. He'll have to work harder, then, in order to save up again for his cane but he doesn't really regret buying something nice for G'raha. The only thing he regrets in this situation is not escaping from Rowena as soon as he could, really. 

"A pleasure doin' business with you, as always." Rowena says, handing him back his empty tomestone pouch. "Wait here a moment an' I'll have one of my girls bring you those tomestones." 

"R-right." Narin says, and almost exhales in relief, realizing that Rowena is about to leave, just before she conspiratorially leans down again. He doesn't like that conspiratorial lean, as if she is doing him a favor instead of finding new and exciting ways to extract tomestones and/or money from him. 

"If you want, I could throw in...a little somethin' extra." she says, and Narin can feel himself quail at the thought. Rowena never gives _anything_ for free, especially not without a catch, unless it can somehow benefit her, and he already feels like a very large trout caught on the hook. His suspicion is proven correct a moment later. "You're a master weaver, aren't you? I know you bought those books from Talan a while back." it's not a rhetorical question, and Narin prays to the elder gods for the earth to open and swallow him. Or, barring the merciful earth swallowing him, for G'raha to return right about now with whatever tomestones he had been able to purchase himself. 

Miserably, Narin nods. 

"A while back, I came into some _fine_ cloth." Rowena says, and Narin sighs, already knowing where this is going. "But no one out here except you has the skill to work with it." 

Which means that no one is _buying_ said cloth, Narin knows, without Rowena having to say, and while he's not good at either holding onto money or commerce, it's easy to figure out that as long as the fabric goes unsold, that it would take up room on Rowena's shelves and be essentially worthless. 

"Um," Narin says, timidly. "I don't have any tomestones left, so I can't _pay_ for it-" 

Rowena shakes her head and her earrings jingle. "All I want for it is a little sewin' favor in the future." she says and Narin freezes, the anxiety static in the back of his head so high for a moment that he can't hear anything. Oh, _no._ Owing Rowena a nebulous, undefined favor is even _worse_ than losing all his tomestones to her and he absolutely, absolutely does _not_ want to owe her anything because he knows he'll never be free if he does. "If you're not convinced, let me show it to you." 

She turns and sweeps down the hallway towards her office and Narin buries his face in his hands, trying to breathe, once he's certain that she's gone, at least for a brief moment. Dealing with Rowena in person was always, always, _always_ far too much and while it's rare that he deals directly with her instead of one of her girls, it's still much too often for his nerves. A moment of peace, calm, and stillness - and a moment that was too quickly shattered.

"Here," Rowena says, carefully holding out a box with the small roll of fabric tucked carefully inside it: not a full bolt, as far as Narin can tell just by looking at it, no more than a few yalms. "Look at it, examine it. The _very_ finest fabric that you've ever laid eyes on. But don't get anythin' on it, or it's yours." 

Narin doesn't actually _want_ the fabric but takes the box, lifts the metal rod the roll is wrapped around to the light, careful to not actually touch the fabric- and inhales, sharply, at examining it. Translucent, iridescent shot-silk, perfectly lustrous, and it truly _is_ the finest fabric he's ever laid eyes on. Thavnairian, if he guesses right.

"Isn't it nice?" Rowena says smugly, and Narin groans but has to agree, despite himself. 

"I don't really have any use for it, though." Narin says, exhaling, as he places the roll of fabric back into the box and closes the lid. "I'm an adventurer. I'll never wear anything like this." 

"No use at all, really?" Rowena asks. "Not even to make your boy somethin' real nice?" 

Narin immediately chokes at the mental image and prays once again to the elder gods for the earth to be merciful and swallow him. The earth, unfortunately, is not merciful, and he's left sitting on the floor in front of Rowena, trying not to imagine the play of light across G'raha's skin through the lustrous fabric. Even if he were inclined to take Rowena's bargain - which he isn't - he isn't certain that he has the skill to work with this fabric, much less make _either_ design in his sketchbook,considerations that pale in the face of his desire to simply sink into the earth from embarrassment and anxiety even just _thinking_ of G'raha's slender body draped in translucent Thavnairian silk. Tries his best to think of something, anything else, especially the memory of ice-cold Silvertear Lake, the killing-bitter winters on the steppe. 

"He's probably never had anythin' so nice." Rowena continues, clearly trying to cajole him into taking the fabric. "An' it's a real bargain. Fabric like this would go for a king's ransom back in Ul'dah." 

Narin closes his eyes tightly so he doesn't have to look at her and pushes the box back to her. "I-it's a very kind offer," he stammers, and finds the perfect excuse to try to wiggle off her hook. Which is to say, the truth. "But he won't accept something so expensive." 

"Well," Rowena says, and he can hear her pick up the box. "If you change your mind, come see me anytime. One of the girls will be right out with your tomestones." 

Once she's gone again, Narin exhales in relief and hits his head against the wall. At least he escaped _one_ of Rowena's cunning traps and it's not long before one of Rowena's girls - not one he knows, it's a different one - drags in a large crate on a little wheeled cart, filled to the brim with old tomestones _(many of which he's certain that he'd paid to Rowena in the first place)_. He can't _borrow_ the cart, which isn't really a problem - he takes a moment to test the weight. Not bad: he can carry the crate on one shoulder and even if he could borrow the cart, the uneven, rocky terrain around St. Coinach's Find would make it impractical. Sets the crate down and considers the merits of taking the crate, as well as his umbrella, outside in order to wait for G'raha and hide from Rowena and any more of her continued plots to part him from his money, tomestones, and favors. 

Fortunately, G'raha appears shortly afterward, carrying a small bag of tomestones and fairly glowing with excitement and barely-contained desire to go pry into their contents. Gods, he's so lovely when he's excited and enthusiastic _(which was quite a lot of the time.)_ "...I thought you weren't buying anything," he says, mismatched eyes narrowing suspiciously as he tucks his purchase into his satchel. 

"I, uh, changed my mind?" Narin says, weakly, unable - and unwilling - to explain how Rowena had cornered him while G'raha had been absorbed in tomestones, likely having a difficult time trying to pick and choose which to take and which to leave with his limited purse. "If you're done, let's go back." 

"I'm done, but what's in the crate?" G'raha asks, relentlessly curious as he kneels down next to it. 

"A surprise?" Narin begins, hesitantly, already knowing there is no hope of dissuading the Seeker from opening the box, just as G'raha pries the lid off the crate and his full lips part, soundless, struck. 

"You didn't have to-" the little scholar says, his voice small and vulnerable, just before he buries his face in his right arm for a moment. "You didn't. You already are doing too much for me." 

"I wanted to." Narin says, puts the lid back on just before he hands the umbrella to G'raha, easily picks up the crate and sets it on his left shoulder, walking out the door with it. 

"You just can't-" G'raha protests. "What do you want for it?" 

"Nothing." Narin says. _Your joy, your happiness. Your smile is enough-_

"But-" G'raha says, again, and Narin shakes his head. 

"I wanted to." he says. _Please, let me- Please, I want-_

For a moment, G'raha tries to hide behind his long bangs, trembling, and Narin waits for him. Afraid that this is too much, that he's pushed too far, too fast. 

"There really isn't anything I can do for you?" the little scholar says, quietly, all aloof arrogance and bravado stripped away. "Nothing that you want from me?" 

The words catch in Narin's throat and he can't say anything for a moment, even as much as he wants to, needs to. _Please, let me-_

Instead, he reaches up with his free hand and as delicately as he can manage with his clumsy fingers, cups G'raha's face, all infinite tenderness as he shakes his head, just before he instead reaches to take G'raha's hand with the hand not steadying the crate against his shoulder. "I wanted to," he manages to say, simply, again, and watches as G'raha's eyes close, long lashes fluttering shut over mismatched eyes. Watches the faint pink flush spread prettily over pale cheeks and wonders, all over again, what G'raha's fantasy is, what he dreams about as unattainable, out of his reach. Knows that G'raha has not been loved enough in his life, nowhere near enough, and vainly wishes that he could see himself as Narin sees him. _You, alone, are enough-_

~~~

On their return to camp, Narin almost doesn't notice the look Rammbroes gives him when they walk past him- quiet, weighing, measuring. Instead, he's much too absorbed with first putting the crate of tomestones in their shared tent and watching as G'raha sets up the strange device that Cid rigged up in order to _read_ the tomestones, and then too busy watching the little scholar try to decide which to start reading first. He'll have to try, somehow, to make sure that G'raha actually gets _some_ sleep, because he knows by now that the Seeker will instead stay up for as long as he's physically capable when he's absorbed in reading. 

"Narin," Rammbroes says, awkwardly, from the entrance of the tent. "Could I speak with you for a moment?" 

"Bwuh?" Narin asks, startled. It's not a very intelligent or witty rejoinder, but it's all that comes to mind, before what Rammbroes actually asked sinks in. "Um, sure." 

G'raha is completely absorbed in tomestones and lost to the outside world; after a moment, Narin stands up and leaves the tent. He expects this to be a talk about going through the rift into the World of Darkness _(they're still working on the process)_ or something else related to NOAH and the expedition: he can't think of anything else. 

"Walk with me," Rammbroes says, when Narin meets him outside. A private talk, then, away from camp, and Narin is even more confused but goes with him, anyway. 

"What's this about?" he asks, once Rammbroes sits down near the cliffs overlooking the camp. A familiar place that he's sat with G'raha on more than one occasion, on the rare occasions that they have time. Thinks of sunlight shining off red hair. 

"I must ask - what are your intentions with G'raha?" the Roegadyn says, and for a moment, Narin can feel his brain grind to a halt

"Bwuh?" Narin asks, again, entirely confused, and no suiting rejoinders are coming to mind. Intentions? What? What did Rammbroes mean by that? "Intentions?" 

That quiet gaze is on him again, weighing, measuring, assessing, and Narin is certain that he comes up wanting. "It's been rather obvious that you two have become very...close." Rammbroes says, carefully, and Narin flushes blue despite his best efforts otherwise. "But I ask again - what are your intentions with G'raha?" 

"Um," Narin says, before his brain finally catches up to what Rammbroes is asking. "Wait, are you asking if I intend to court him?" he manages to not squeak only by dint of how deep his voice is and is, yet again, extremely glad for that fact. He hadn't actually _considered_ "courting" as a formal _concept_ to describe what he was doing, or even what was happening between them, before this very moment. 

Rammbroes sighs, quietly. "Yes, Narin." he says. "I suppose that is what I am asking, yes." 

Narin wrings his hands anxiously. "I never thought about it," he says, weakly, feeling the anxiety static crackle high in the back of his head and he's already tying himself into knots. "I..." 

"Easy," Rammbroes says, briefly resting a hand on his shoulder. "I suppose that was the wrong question to ask." 

"Um," Narin says, twining his fingers around each other: anxiety is running so high in him right now that he thinks he can hear the beat of his heart, his pulse quick and fast. "W-what would be the right question?" 

For a moment, Rammbroes looks away, as if deep in thought. "I have known G'raha for a long time," he says, finally. "Since he was a child. I worry about him, though he would _never_ hear those worries or even _allow_ me to show them. He is a grown man who will do as he wishes regardless of what anyone says, or whether it is actually good for him, stubborn and willful. And while he can be...exasperating in both his headstrong ways and his behavior, I try to think of his well-being, since he will not. " 

"...I don't know what my 'intentions' are," Narin confesses, quietly. "I don't know what I want, or even what I'm doing. I just...." for a moment, he trails off, before the words just come spilling out. "I want to take care of him. I want to make him happy, even though I probably don't even have the right to try. I...." he swallows, anxiety static buzzing high and loud in the back of his head, his heart beating like wings against a catch. "That's all that I want." he adds, his voice smaller still. "I..." 

"I see." Rammbroes says, low, and Narin can feel his eyes on him. Weighing, measuring, assessing. "You _have_ been good for him." he finally says, but something in his voice has Narin tense with continued anxiety. "But there are only two things that I can - and will - ask of you." 

"What is it?" Narin asks, twining his fingers around each other nervously. 

"Take your time to figure out what your intentions are. What you want. Not necessarily what you're doing." Rammbroes says. "But don't overthink it." 

"...and the, um, other?" 

"Do not break his heart." Rammbroes adds, looking right at him. "I know there is nothing I can do if you do, but _if_ you do, I will remember it, for a very long time." 

Narin swallows, audibly. "I-I won't." he says, wringing his hands. "I don't want to." looks down at his hands for a long moment, before he looks up again. "What you mean is that he's been hurt more than enough in his life already, hasn't he, and-" 

"That's exactly what I mean." Rammbroes says, voice soft as dust. "Make no mistake - he has endured much and can endure much more. More than I can even know, most likely. But-" 

"But if I can spare him at least a little-" Narin says, and his gaze trails out over the cliffs, to the land below. "I would give so much and more. I want him to be happy, truly happy, without it hurting him. I couldn't. I _wouldn't."_

"And that's what I wanted to know." Rammbroes says. 

The two of them sit in silence, their legs dangling over the cliff's face, as the sun slowly begins to slant towards sunset. 

"Besides, if you break his heart, he'll make your life a misery with unending trouble." Rammbroes adds, finally, absolutely deadpan in the way that he tells jokes. "I know he already _is_ unending trouble, but there _is_ a difference between joy and misery with unending trouble. And you don't want that, do you?" 

Narin almost laughs, at the joke and with relief, but the wind kicks up crystal dust and he flops back onto his back wheezing with quiet mirth instead. 

~~~

It's another slow night in the Seventh Heaven, just like the last time he had been here, and Narin is glad for it, especially now that he's several drinks in and pleasantly warm. Normally, he wouldn't go drinking in here, preferring to drink by himself, but it's another rainy night, with an ill-luck wind blowing from off-the lake, and there aren't many people here. He's glad for that, because he isn't sure that he could bear much more excitement, and he picks up the drink in front of him, sweetness and oranges and unfamiliar sunshine on his tongue, the same drink he'd been having the last time he was here. Drinks deep and misses kumis all the more, even if this drink is nice. He probably shouldn't be out drinking, given the current state of his finances, but he's out of his own small stash of alcohol, and it would probably cost _more_ in order to replenish it: he'll just have to go do more adventuring work on the morrow, for both money and tomestones. 

Brief, lilting laughter reaches his ears, and Narin turns his head to see G'raha sitting at a table in the back, with an unfamiliar Duskwight man, some adventurer or another. Less sitting _with_ him, really, and more sitting in his lap, wearing clothes that he's never seen on him before. Some kind of once-dark green long jacket and long skirt but while the cloth, even from here, looks like it had formerly been well-made, neither garment looks to be in good condition: the skirt, especially, has seen better days, fraying and ripped hems. Sharlayan clothing, Narin guesses, though he absolutely isn't sure, but given their condition he can guess very easily why G'raha doesn't really _wear_ them. 

Narin's not jealous, watching G'raha flirt - he's glad to see G'raha having a good time, or trying to have a good time, and hopes that the rest of his evening will be nice - but he can't take his eyes off the hand on G'raha's thigh. G'raha can do as he likes, of course, and the only thing Narin wants is for him to be safe and happy and well, but the voice in the back of his head that speaks with his own voice reminds him, _if you weren't so afraid, that could be you._ Instead, he turns his attention towards his drink and misses home so badly that it aches with every sip of orange and unfamiliar alcohol on his tongue. He misses his home and his family and his tribe, misses the steppe and the open sky and _home_ , things both large and small. The alcohol, the food, tripping over his tongue only because of anxiety and not anxiety _and_ the unfamiliarity of the language, not standing out in every way from mannerisms to accent to his appearance. He even almost misses the Buduga. Only _almost_ though: he _especially_ doesn't miss the feel of his fist breaking someone's jaw the last time he'd had to escape one of their kidnapping attempts. 

He's almost done with his drink, drifting in longing for home, when a warm, slight weight slides into his lap. Narin yelps in shock and sudden surprise before G'raha's gentle, crystal-sweet laugh drifts to his ears.

"W-what are you doing?" Narin yelps, though he's not nearly as rattled as he would be normally, able to enjoy G'raha sitting in his lap with only a little buzz of anxiety static in the back of his head. 

"I thought it obvious," the little scholar says, tail swishing arrogantly. "Have you not done this before?" 

"N-no," Narin says. "I don't make a habit out of either going to bars or trying to pick up a pretty boy in them." 

"Maybe you should try a little more often," G'raha suggests, cat-smiling. "I might welcome it." 

"Weren't you _with_ someone?" Narin asks, glancing back to see the Duskwight man G'raha had been sitting with still sitting at the table. 

"I changed my mind," G'raha says, one ear flicking cutely. Gods, his ears are so cute. "When I saw you were here." 

Before Narin can ask any more questions, G'raha snatches his glass out of his hand and drinks the remainder of it, before he can manage to snatch it back. 

"What were you drinking? That tastes familiar," the little scholar says. 

"I don't know the name of it." Narin admits, just before he orders another drink by pointing to the same one on the menu, grateful as always for the colored illustrations. "How is this supposed to work?" he asks, carefully, alcohol making his tongue far bolder than normal and dulling the buzz of anxiety. It's still there, but further in the back of his head, not quite real, not quite something to pay attention to, not quite something seizing him up. Able to want without tangling himself into knots, however briefly. "If someone were to pick you up. What would the next step be?" 

"Buy me a drink," G'raha suggests, his tail winding around Narin's right arm, the hand without the drink in it. 

"Um. What kind do you like? I don't know anything about Eorzean alcohol," Narin says, feeling rather out of his depth. A _different_ kind of out of his depth, but still very much out of his depth. 

"Pick something," G'raha says, shrugging. "It doesn't especially matter what it is." 

After a moment, Narin picks something sugary and red off the menu, still not knowing it's name, but it's a cute drink that reminds him of G'raha and he adds up the costs in his head: he has _just_ enough money to pay for everything, including a tip for the long-suffering bartender. He watches as G'raha sips the drink for a moment and then wiggles tantalizingly in his lap, and Narin tries not to groan out loud. 

"W-what next?" he asks, trying not to stumble too much over his words. 

"The end goal is to go elsewhere...together, after lingering a little while." G'raha says, tongue darting out to lick a droplet that was clinging to his lower lip teasingly, and Narin's eyes are fixed on his lovely mouth. Gods, he _wants.. "_ You can touch me if you'd like." 

After a moment, Narin rests his hand on G'raha's thigh beneath the bar, can feel his slender strength beneath his fingers, as well as how much smaller he is compared to him, and a frisson of heat traces its way up his spine as he idly caresses him. He _wants_ so much, nearly undiluted by anxiety for the only and probably last time in his life, and the way that G'raha tantalizingly balances his weight in his lap, rests himself so perfectly over his cock:, doesn't help. He's already half-hard in his pants but he patiently waits for G'raha to drink as much of the drink as he wants, as teasingly as he wants, until he gracefully sets the half-full glass down onto the bar counter. 

"Have we lingered long enough?" Narin asks, his voice lower and rougher than he expects of himself. 

"Are you ready to go somewhere else?" G'raha asks, and Narin drops enough money on the counter to cover his tab as well as the bartender's tip. Takes a moment, while G'raha is _even more teasingly_ sliding off his lap to finish the half-full red drink and sets the empty glass down while he's straightening his long skirt. Takes a breath. 

"Let's go." he says.

_~~~_

Narin has never been so bold in his life: he's nowhere near drunk _(apparently his alcohol tolerance is somewhere past 'impressive' and into 'ridiculous' or 'unfair', to hear Thancred describe it)_ but he's drank just enough to burn away his inhibitions, his hesitations. He doesn't stop to think whether stumbling behind the Seventh Heaven with G'raha - instead of taking him back to either his room in the Rising Stones or back to their shared tent at St. Coinach's Find - is a good idea or not, instead he doesn't stop to think at all. He wants so much, and then G'raha is in his lap with his back against the wall of the Rising Stones and then he's kissing him, full flower mouth under his, more than hard enough to bruise. Tastes tart red rolanberries and distilled moonlight on G'raha lips, in his mouth, as well as oranges and unfamiliar sunlight, the remnants of his own drink. One of his hands settles on a slender hip as he pulls G'raha closer, grip more than hard enough to leave bruises, and _gods_ , he wants. 

"Go on," G'raha says, as he wraps his legs around Narin's waist, small hand slipping under his robes and into his pants, strokes him teasingly through his smallclothes just before Narin covers his mouth again with his own, an even rougher, even more bruising kiss, pretty lips parting beneath his. Doesn't even bother to unfasten Narin's pants until he's achingly hard and groaning, until even the loose pants he wears, brought with him from the steppe, seem too tight and constricting and he's grinding against G'raha's thigh, desperate for even more friction than simply the touch of his hand through his smallclothes. 

Narin wants _so_ much. If this goes on much longer, he's likely to just shove G'raha against the wall, push his skirt up, and have him right here - just as he'd been tempted to do earlier in the afternoon, except that now it seems like an excellent, very workable idea, as opposed to desire fueling his anxiety. And also likely what G'raha had been hoping for, in general, when he'd chosen to wear his Sharlayan clothes, that had a skirt, instead of his normal clothes to go out and pick up someone at the bar. He doesn't yet do what he wants to, but pushes G'raha's back further against the wall while he's still sitting, roughly shoves his skirt partway up _(and ignores how he tears it, handling the old material too roughly_ ) and gets a hand under it to caress the sweet, supple curve of his ass through his smallclothes. Just before he rubs his aching cock against a slim thigh, and G'raha makes a soft noise low in his throat and parts his pretty thighs for him, offering, arches into the caress, encouraging, and his hand is _still_ in Narin's pants .

Oh. _Please, he wants so much_ , Narin's veins are alight with desire, thrumming high and bright through him, as he leans down to bite a livid red mark into G'raha's pale throat, wonders just how easily the Seeker's smallclothes would tear if he yanked them off. _Please. He wants so much-_

Unfortunately, it's then that his linkpearl chooses to ring. Narin tries to ignore it at first - whoever it is can call back _later_ , preferably at a time when he doesn't have G'raha in his lap, with the archer's small hand in his pants - but it _keeps ringing,_ an aggravatingly low vibration against his horn. For a moment, he's tempted to rip it off and throw it somewhere into the alley where he doesn't have to deal with it, and reaches to do so with the hand that isn't under G'raha's skirt, but G'raha catches his wrist just before he breaks the kiss. 

"Answer it," he says, crystal-sweet voice barely a whisper, and Narin groans, long and low. 

"If this isn't important-" he mutters, just before he answers his linkpearl. "Hello?" he says, trying not to sound breathless and completely failing, tries to ignore the fact that G'raha's hand is still in his pants and to not think about the fact that he was just about to tear the little scholar's smallclothes off and have him against the wall. "Is this important?" 

Unfortunately for both his mood and the general state of affairs, it _is_ important. Riol - reliable, clever Riol, who would _never_ call him about anything unimportant - is on the other end of the call, wanting to talk to him _right now_ about something suspicious he's noticed recently and no, it can't wait, especially as he needs to meet with him alone about it. Something suspicious, then...there's been a lot of suspicious things happening lately, especially in Ul'dah: even Narin can figure out that the Ivy had only been the start, that there were definitely things happening unseen and a tangled web woven. But wanting to talk to him alone about it in the middle of the night? That definitely spells trouble, and likely trouble that he'll either be involved in, or have to solve, or both, and he's already accepted the inevitable. 

Narin sighs. "I'll be there soon," he says and hangs up the call, trying to resist the urge to hit his head into the wall. As the haze of lust slowly dissipates, he is uncomfortably aware of just _where_ they are _(and immediately prays to the elder gods for the earth to swallow him, anxiety spiking again in the back of his head-)_ and has never, ever, _ever_ been so glad that the Rising Stones both has no back door _and_ that both he and G'raha were...quiet. Given his skill at reconnaissance and information-gathering, Narin's certain that Riol has _already figured out_ from how he was talking what his call had interrupted and blushes blue just thinking about it _(and hopes that Riol will never, ever, ever bring it up.)_

"Duty calls?" G'raha asks, slipping his hand out of Narin's pants and slides off his lap, standing in one fluid motion and straightening his skirt _(Narin tries not to groan at the loss of contact but fails miserably_ ), apparently unconcerned with the new tear in the already-worn fabric. 

"Y-yes." Narin says, and G'raha leans down to kiss him, mouth against his, but without the desperate heat from before in it. 

"Go on," the little scholar says, straightening up. "Do what you have to do."

And with that, G'raha is gone, slipping back around the Seventh Heaven and into the night. 

Narin takes a moment longer to gently hit his head against the wall and breathe, anxiety static gradually ebbing, before he gets up, fastens his pants and puts himself back in order, and goes to meet Riol. 


	8. what understanding defies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And I would give all this and heaven too_   
>  _I would give it all if only for a moment_   
>  _That I could just understand_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I got a NSFW Narin/Raha commission from [this artist](https://twitter.com/healinggremlin) on twitter, and you can look at the beautiful art [here](https://i.imgur.com/Axo7KdJ.jpg).

Narin counts the days by stitches: sometimes, he's so busy he has only enough time to set one or two stitches in the shirt and pants that he's making, but gradually, both garments take shape beneath his fingers. Three months pass both slowly and quickly, and while he's more than busy trying to help Riol and do everything else he's expected to do as the Warrior of Light, Narin _makes_ time to go to St. Coinach's Find to see G'raha, even if only for a few minutes, even if he's too tired to do more than just rest his head in G'raha's lap while the little scholar reads aloud to him from whatever tomestone or book he's reading now. It doesn't matter that he doesn't really understand what G'raha is working on: just hearing his voice, soft and crystal-sweet, is more than enough. 

He drowses, listening to G'raha read, and jerks awake from fitful sleep, with his head still pillowed on G'raha's lap, his weight trapping the other man in place. "Sorry," he mutters, unable to find more words than that for a long moment and his voice is slurred, heavy with exhaustion. "I'll get up and go lie down somewhere else." 

Instead, G'raha rests a gentle hand on his head, careful to not touch his horns, slender fingers twining through his hair. The gentlest of touches, the softest of caresses, and Narin mutters incoherently and doesn't think, too tired for thought, as he turns his head into the touch. Doesn't think about how he's encouraging it, about how nice G'raha's hand feels, his fingers in his hair, the gentleness in his touch, just...lets it be, just lets himself have this moment, lets himself have and want the tenderness. 

"Stay," the Seeker says as he looks down at him through long lashes- quiet, gentle, and there is steadfast warmth and light in his mismatched gaze. 

Narin closes his eyes and stays. 

~~~

There isn't much that Narin can help with at either the Find or Syrcus Tower besides lifting and carrying until they find a way to open the voidgate, besides occasionally clearing out a gigas or a hippogryph that wanders too close, maybe even a cobra on occasion but he more often finds them with an arrow neatly through one eye first. The only relevant skills he has are fighting and healing and neither are exactly in demand at the moment with NOAH's expedition. Entirely conscious of how useless he is, Narin stays out of the way of the scholars and engineers doing the real work on the rare occasions he has time to be around the Find for longer than the few stolen moments he has to see G'raha. 

Awkwardly, Narin shuffles down the path towards the Find, which is unusually quiet this time of day: most of the researchers must be down at the Tower, including G'raha. Surprisingly, Rammbroes is present in the camp, leafing through a large book sitting on a crate in front of him: a ledger of some kind, maybe, though Narin doesn't know enough about ledgers or books in order to tell for sure except for the figures he can only dimly make out on the page. After a moment, the Sea Wolf looks up from whatever he's doing, lifts a hand and waves him over. 

"I'll come back later," Narin stammers, the first words he can think of falling out of his mouth. "Sorry to disturb you-" 

Rammbroes shakes his head. "You have remarkable timing," he says, dryly. "I need you to do me a favor." 

"Bwuh?" Narin asks, stumbling over his tongue, gaze briefly dropping down to the large book propped up on the crate: it's definitely figures, arranged in a dizzingly complex array of figures that Narin can't possibly make heads or tails of. "S-sorry," he adds, a moment later. "What can I help you with?" 

The older man's eyes are sharp on him. "You clearly need to get more sleep," Rammbroes says. "You and G'raha both. Speaking of G'raha, that was the favor I wanted to ask of you. He's been spending every waking moment he possibly can in there, with the exceptions of when you come to the Find, and if it wasn't for the fact that Master Garlond and I have been taking in turns to _carry_ him out of there, he would be _sleeping_ in there, too. His fits with his Eye have been getting worse, too, but he absolutely won't listen if I _tell_ him to leave and rest, and currently he's not speaking to me, _again_ , after the _last_ argument we had on the matter. He was more stubborn than three adults when he was _nine_ and has only grown worse with the years and you're the only one here who has half a prayer of him listening to you." 

"So you'd like me to lure him out of the Tower and rest?" Narin asks, carefully. 

"You're the only one who has successfully managed him in that regard so far, so yes." Rammbroes says, sighing. 

"R-right." Narin says, trying not to stumble over his words. "I'll do my best." 

Of course, now the question was, what could he possibly lure G'raha with that wouldn't be construed as coddling him? He'd managed to get G'raha out of the tree with expensive, delicious duck, but somehow he's fairly certain that he wouldn't be able to manage the trick a second time. Especially not when the goal was to get him out of the Tower, not just get him fed and somewhat distracted - though both things should also be on the list, probably. Narin is, unfortunately out of ideas, and as he starts making his way towards Eight Sentinels, he tries to think of something but with absolutely no success, though he's going to have to think of something. 

~~~

Finding G'raha in the Tower is, unfortunately, no easier, because he could be literally anywhere, and there's entirely too many rooms that he could possibly check. The first place he checks is the throne room, but the little scholar isn't there: he should have guessed, really, especially if he's trying to avoid Cid as well as Rammbroes. The next several rooms that he looks in, completely randomly with no ideas otherwise, G'raha isn't there, either, and none of the scholars or engineers he asks, from either the Sons of St. Coinach or the Ironworks, have seen him either. Where could he possibly be? 

He's not in the room they explored together, either, the room with the mirror and the elaborate mural of fourteen gold circles on the floor and the blank aether, waiting to be claimed. This time, however, when Narin stands alone in front of the mirror, flicking his tongue out to taste the aether without thinking about it, it isn't quite as blank as it was. Whatever it is is inchoate and not quite formed, barely a flicker of possibility in something that has existed, unclaimed and completely blank, for millennia, but the aether has shifted, slightly: still as pure as ever but no longer entirely blank. Instead, he can taste the barest tinge, the barest impression of the crystal-sweet, aloof but gentle brilliance he associates with G'raha. The little scholar has clearly been spending quite a lot of time in this room, then, if it remembers him, even if it is only a little bit.

While this explains where he has been spending his time, it doesn't really help in finding where G'raha is: if he was a mage, Narin could track him by aether signature assuming he had been casting anything, but G'raha isn't a mage, and he's out of ideas. Sighing, Narin closes the plain wooden door leading to the mirror room behind him, and trudges down and across and up another set of staircases: how was he going to find G'raha now? 

For lack of any other ideas, Narin stops on yet another empty landing, identical blue crystal to his eyes (though G'raha, of course, would be able to tell the difference), empties his mind of as many external thoughts as his perpetually anxiety-ridden self could manage, closes his eyes, and prays to the elder gods, as well as to the Dawn Father and the Dusk Mother, in order to grant him some form of insight. Lets the wisdom of the gods fill him as best as it can, though he isn't a shaman and doesn't have the particular gift for it like Temulun Khatun or his second sister, Enkhjargal do. His has ever been the warrior's path, gentle though he has always been, but all he needs is a _little_ help, a little insight, and he can do the rest. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully? 

He follows what divine insight he's managed to garner down another hallway, another room hidden off from the main structure like the room with the mirror, behind another wood door that stands out almost as much in the overly-ornate decorations and architecture of the Crystal Tower. From what Narin's seen, the Allagans loved ornate blue and gold in almost everything in the Tower, and while this door is elaborately carved with flowers, an entire garden across the door, it's still plain compared to most of the rest of the Tower. Carefully, he opens it and steps through, only to find a garden behind the door, delicate, beautiful hothouse flowers and greenery that had somehow survived millennia after the end of the world, suspended like everything else in time. 

No, he realizes after a moment: every plant in here is alive but made out of living crystal, testament to a world that no longer existed. Carefully, so carefully, afraid he'd break even a single leaf with his clumsy touch, Narin reaches out to touch one of the plants, a blue crystalline rose that looks for a moment like an ordinary plant until he notices how the light shines through it, motes of refracted light dancing beneath it. All silence and stillness, and he wonders which long-dead Allagan royal had grown and tended and loved this garden. 

No, not just a garden, he realizes, as he walks further through, hearing the delicate chime of the crystal, a discordant melody beneath his clumsy, heavy footsteps, with the way it's laid out. This had once been some Allagan royal's bedroom as well as garden: bedroom, bower, and cage, all in one, he knows: it's not quite a full Echo vision, but it's with the same knowing weight, the same unbearable pressure, inevitably drawn in. For a moment, a moment, his vision blurs around the edges and he can almost see a long-dead, long-gone ghostly shape resting among the blue crystal flowers on the slightly raised platform in the room's center, the slender figure of a girl - barely taller than G'raha would be - with long dark hair, dressed all in white as well as an even more hazy second figure kneeling by there, the dim, ghostly shape of a young Miqo'te man with tied-back red hair, not much taller than the girl. 

A memory of a memory of people long dead and gone, playing out again in front of his eyes, the figures gradually taking shape: as he watches, the girl awakens and sits up, slim arms reaching for the man kneeling at her side, and for a moment, he can see her bright, unusually red eyes framed by long lashes, the same shade of red as G'raha's eye and both eyes of Unei and Doga. Had this girl been the owner of this room then, millennia before? He expects to be drawn deeper and further into this memory of whatever had been left behind, the familiar headache and unbearable pressure of the Echo building behind his eyes, before suddenly, all tension and pain just...dissolves, along with the ghostly figures and the memory. 

Instead, lying among the flowers is G'raha, the most beautiful flower in this room, who is also unfortunately unconscious. Like a maiden out of a story, almost, except that this is absolutely terrifying. The sound of his breathing is familiar, too fast, too-pained, and he's lying among the flowers still, so still. Immediately, without thinking, his heart beating fast like the wings of a caged bird, Narin drops to his knees by his side and wraps one arm around him, easily lifts him to his lap one-handed, and reaches for his cane with the other, even though he knows that healing magic won't help at all with this. He has to try, anyway, and the light of his healing magic washes over the scholar with absolutely no effect. He'd already known that it wouldn't have any effect, that it wouldn't help at all, but- 

After a moment, G'raha stirs, long long lashes fluttering as his eyes open, glancing up as if he doesn't see anything, doesn't even see Narin's face. His mismatched eyes are glassy, like they always are after one of his fits, and he isn't quite aware of himself for a moment, slender hands trembling with exhaustion as his tail lashes, aimless and agitated. "I think I was lost in a dream," he murmurs, his voice vague and drifting, lost, so very little like himself, and Narin's heart aches hearing it. "Looking for something that I can't find but should remember. Can almost remember but can't quite reach it." 

"I'm here," Narin says, finally, not certain of what to say, not to do, while G'raha is like this, remembers the time he'd found him unconscious in their shared tent and woken up like this. Drifting and dreaming: whatever his Eye is doing to him is getting worse as time goes on. _(Will G'raha ever be happy in a way that doesn't hurt him, too?)_ He hates that he hasn't been able to be there for him for this, very often, over the past few months, all his other obligations as the Warrior of Light tightening on him like a vice. "I promise." 

G'raha's gaze drifts upward, past him, to the crystal ceiling presumably high above. "Almost." he murmurs, still not all there. Still somewhere Narin can't reach, can't follow him to, no matter how hard he tries. "But I still can't, and I need to-" 

"I'll stay with you until you find it." Narin promises, not sure of what he's saying, trying not to stumble over his words, trying not to cry and not entirely succeeding, especially as he remembers G'raha's words from before, when the uncertain aloof edges of his voice had been gentled by pain. _You need not try to spare my feelings. Somehow, meeting those two clones has wrought great change in me. I am consumed with remembering...something. Something ancient, but ever so important._ "And after. I promise." 

G'raha goes silent and still, again, drifting back into that troubled sleep as his long lashes flutter and his eyes slide closed and Narin's arms tighten around him as he tries to hold him close in the circle of his arms and not let him go, holds him close with careful, infinite gentleness and all the strength he has and does not, will not, let go. It's all he can do to try to keep him safe, to try to keep him here, and it's not enough. How much has his Allagan Eye taken from G'raha already - and how much more will it take, before this is over? 

~~~

Sometime later, G'raha awakens, again, with a headache and entirely unaware of the first time that he had awakened from his fit. Narin chooses not to tell him about it: if he doesn't remember, there's no point in upsetting him with it, especially since he already has so much to deal with already. 

"You don't have any more of that headache tonic, do you?" the scholar asks, suspiciously, tail swaying behind him as he gets to his feet. Narin has noticed, both the last time he gave it to him and over the next several months, how much G'raha dislikes taking medicine - and how cute even his displeased expressions when he has to take it are. 

"I don't have any right now," Narin says - and adds, a moment later, just because he wants to see what face G'raha will make, "But I can make some for you when we're out of here." 

The expression G'raha makes is even more cutely displeased than the last time. "I would prefer the headache," he mutters sourly, ears flattening against the back of his head as he pouts at the thought of the medicine, and Narin tries not to laugh. "And I still have things to do here." 

Narin swallows - he can't tell G'raha that Rammbroes had asked him to get him out of the Tower, even if only for a little while, or else the very stubborn scholar will dig his heels in. "Not even for a little while?" he asks, after a moment, and watches G'raha's ears flick questioningly, tail swishing behind him. "I'm actually able to get away from my other obligations for a little while. But I don't think I can guarantee that again until they manage to find a way to open the voidgate." 

Swish, swish, tail flick, tail flick: there's a lot of emotion contained within those few movements, as well as behind those mismatched eyes, and he can tell that G'raha is deep in thought, trying to decide between two compelling lures: whether to keep burying himself in up to his ears in Allagan history and relics or whether to bother him, and Narin isn't certain which will win out. It's probably Allagan history, no matter how much he sweetens his lures, and inwardly sighs. 

"Please?" Narin adds, weakly, a moment later, and watches G'raha's left ear twitch in interest. It's really like watching his sister's kitten though he'd never admit the comparison to G'raha's face or behind his back. "You can teach me about Allagan history if you want." 

"What did you have in mind?" G'raha asks, obviously toying with the hint. 

"Um, there's something I want to show you?" Narin says, trying not to wring his hands nervously. "It's not nearly as interesting as everything in here, but it's not going to last much longer, until it comes again next year."

Narin isn't sure what else he can offer to try to sway G'raha's mind away from the Tower, however temporarily, especially as the offer to let him talk to him about Allagan history was the best thing he had in mind: if this doesn't work to pique his curiosity, then he'll just carry him out and risk his ire, though certainly much more carefully than either Rammbroes or Cid probably do. Instead, he is pleasantly surprised when G'raha's tail sways behind him, just before the little scholar speaks again. 

"Lead the way, then," he says, aloof and arch as ever, and Narin meets his eyes anxiously, just before he takes his small hand in his. 

~~~

Mor Dhona was an inhospitable place, its aether and the land itself scarred and bent permanently by the death of Midgardsormr at the Battle of Silvertear Falls, years before, and by being the center for two Calamities. Despite everything, however, some things besides the cobras, hippogryphs, and gigas tried to live and hold on: several years before, some enterprising and homesick adventurers from Ul'dah had attempted to plant peach trees along the central road - or path, rather - through Revenant's Toll, to have a small grove of cheer on Little Ladies Day, even though they were so far from home. The trees were small and spindly, and their blossoms were partially crystallized, too, but despite everything, they grew and bloomed - and the Doman refugees had planted their own trees, fragile cuttings brought from their faraway homeland when they had fled, to give themselves a reminder of their homes too, even if they might never be able to return there. 

"How long has it been since you've been to Revenant's Toll, last?" Narin asks, when they're on the path down towards the settlement. 

"The last time..." G'raha murmurs, clearly deep in thought and trying to remember. "Probably when we were at the bar together that night." Narin tries not to blush, remembering _that_ particular night as well as how Riol had interrupted them, but fails and knows that he's probably several shades of blue by now. "I haven't been back since then."

Narin had guessed that he might have gone again once more - though probably not more than that, given how busy he was - to maybe try, again, to pick someone up at the bar for a brief space of "casual physical pleasure", as G'raha had put it once, but this answer was both somehow expected and unexpected. Given how busy G'raha has been working on research, he might not have wanted or been able to spare the time for that, especially with the unsatisfying ...encounter...that he'd complained about that time and that Narin still wants to throw a man into Silvertear Lake over. "Then you haven't seen these," he says, gesturing to the peach blossoms. 

"Peach blossoms?" G'raha asks, tail flicking curiously, and Narin has to wonder all over again if there's something that he's missing that G'raha knows. "They're not native to here, are they?"

"They aren't," Narin says. "Two different groups brought them here, both wanting a sight of home. Even if the trees aren't quite...right, here." 

One small hand reaches up (and up, and up) to toy with the hair ornament that Narin is wearing, a spray of preserved peach blossoms that he'd gotten from helping with the Little Ladies Day celebrations in Ul'dah, passing through, and had only recently decided to actually wear it. There's a second ornament in his bag, carefully tucked away, meant for G'raha, though he can't decide whether to give it to him or to wait until he has the time to actually sit down and make an outfit to match it properly, and his fingers itch to do it. When he has time, he keeps telling himself, and has developed his skills properly, to make the design in his sketchbook _sing_ in cloth. "Where did you get this?" The Seeker asks, curiously, careful not to touch his horns _(and Narin can't decide if he's appreciative of the courtesy or disappointed or both, tangled up in a knot inside him.)_

"I was passing through Ul'dah during a holiday," Narin says, trying not to squirm nervously as G'raha pokes the flowers in his hair. "And I helped with it, so they gave me this." 

G'raha's ears flick mischievously, as he pokes at the hair ornament one last time with the hand that isn't currently twined with Narin's. "It suits you," he says, tail flicking, and Narin can feel himself blush even deeper. "You should keep it." 

"That's what I'm intending to do," Narin says, trying not to stumble over his words, but is acutely aware that something is missing. G'raha's hair is bare and unadorned, except for the pins he uses to secure it, and it somehow doesn't feel right that he has the hair ornament while G'raha is much prettier and has nothing, _(has never really been given anything)_ , especially since he hasn't had the chance yet to give him the clothes that he's made for him. "Hopefully, anyway." 

Without thinking, Narin catches up a spray of freshly fallen blossoms and tucks it into G'raha's hair, delicately secures it behind one cute ear, an improvised hair ornament. I's hastily made and nowhere near as carefully arranged and preserved as the one in his own hair or the one in his bag that he intends to give to the scholar as a gift when the time is right, but the messy, asymmetric fall of the flowers suits him somehow more than careful perfection. "There," he says, before his mind and anxiety can catch up to what he's done. "Now we match." 

G'raha's full lips part, still somehow surprised. "You didn't have to-" 

"I wanted to," Narin says, again, the only answer he will ever give, and for a moment, the air is silence and stillness itself as they stand hand in hand beneath the peach blossoms. He repeats himself, again, softer, yet somehow even more firm, the only time in his life he can manage to be confident while he's speaking. That while he didn't _have_ to do these things for G'raha, everything that he chooses to do and offer him, that he does them because he wants to and for no other reason than to see him happy. "I wanted to." 

For a moment, he watches G'raha's eyes close, long long lashes fluttering closed, before the little scholar leans into his side, face buried in his ribcage. Narin just lets him stay there,silently nestled against his side, and just rests a hand carefully in his hair, fingers twining in the soft red strands. Gently strokes his hair and just lets G'raha soak up all the gentle affection that he can give him, like a flower denied the sun, and doesn't say anything, just quietly hates the fact that he's lived a life where simple affection has been so rare. 

_(he just wants G'raha to be happy, even if he isn't certain, still, that he has the right to try to make him happy, all he wants is to see him actually smile-)_

~~~

The cold sinks into the bones easily, in Mor Dhona, and while Narin was used to the cold winters on the steppe, especially in the years after the Seventh Calamity turned steppe winters killing-bitter, the early spring cold in Mor Dhona sinks into the bones entirely differently than the cold at home. Once the sun was setting, walking beneath the peach trees was no longer pleasant, especially as he can see G'raha shivering _(though trying to hide it, he can tell)_ in his sleeveless shirt and thin, threadbare tight pants, and the old cloak he's wearing as well isn't enough against the cold. It's technically early spring by the calendar, and elsewhere in the world, but winter's chill holds on stubbornly in Mor Dhona despite the blossoms, and probably the only reason G'raha has managed to stand the winter with his inadequate clothing, even used to Ilsabard's cold as he is, is that he spends all his time in the Tower, rather than anywhere else. 

_(Narin adds a cloak to the list of things he wants to make for G'raha, something warm and flowy and with a lot of ease of movement.)_

"Let's go inside," Narin suggests, awkwardly, trying not to make it seem like he's coddling the Miqo'te or being too overprotective. "I don't know about you, but I haven't eaten yet." 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches G'raha's tail flicking, a slow, considering metronome. "I haven't yet either," he says, in a voice that bespeaks mischief, and Narin sighs. 

"I'm not going to hand-feed you," he says, already accepting despite himself that it's just going to end up that way, somehow, again, despite all his best efforts otherwise That G'raha is going to steal his food, right out of his hand, and if it ever came to a situation where it would be _necessary_ to hand-feed G'raha that he would be _absolutely_ impossible and refuse to allow it. 

"I know," G'raha says, cat-smiling, as the two of them make their way towards the Seventh Heaven. 

The ill-luck wind is blowing off the lake tonight, clouds rolling in that portend a storm as well, so it'll probably be quiet, but Narin doesn't really want to sit in the bar and eat, especially since he'd just replenished his alcohol stash and really doesn't need to be spending money on alcohol in the bar, too. Doesn't really want to take G'raha back to St. Coinach's Find, either: he _could_ , easily enough, but honestly, Narin really isn't in the mood and given that G'raha is still avoiding both Cid and Rammbroes, that would probably be best avoided too. Briefly considers what to do: G'raha is trustworthy, and he'd intended on introducing him to the other Scions _eventually,_ especially once things with the Tower had...calmed down a little. Not tonight, they're both too tired to deal with that, but if the little scholar's comfortable, he could just take him, and the food, to his room, and they could eat there. 

As he expected, the Seventh Heaven is quiet, with only a few patrons here tonight. Narin takes the illustrated menu of food from the bartender and flips through it, briefly: as much as he wants to get something really nice to try to tempt G'raha's appetite with, like the roast duck from before, he doesn't have _that_ much money right now. He's been spending most of his time helping Riol track down discrepancies in weapon shipments and hasn't had a lot of time to take on extra jobs for money. Sighing, knowing the limitations on his purse, he instead gets the three kinds of miq'abobs they have on offer, several skewers of each: a decent variety of food and something familiar to the little scholar, and pauses for a moment before he hands the menu back. Picks out something sweet as well, a couple of pieces of bubble chocolate, just because it seems right, and finally hands the menu back. 

"You know, I could make those," G'raha murmurs, archly, tucked against his side with a bit of a pout. "The miq'abobs. Not the chocolate, I never learned how to manage dessert." 

"There isn't really anywhere for you to cook, though." Narin says. "Unless we went back to St. Coinach's Find and you used one of the fires there." 

G'raha pouts even more. "No," he says, tail lashing irritably. "Not with Rammbroes _and_ Cid treating me like a child," 

Narin sighs: this is a familiar problem, especially because G'raha _so fiercely resists_ even the idea of taking care of himself and chafes so much at Rammbroes's restrictions that it turns into an argument each and every time. He'll have to coax G'raha back to the Find _(and he's certain that G'raha has stuffed his bag full of books and tomestones, to avoid having to go back for as long as possible),_ but that can wait until he's gotten the scholar back into a better mood. "Then next time," he offers, non-noncommittally, just as the bartender hands him the package of food. "This way," he says, ignores the minstrel on his usual stool, and swings open the door into the Rising Stones.

"I can bring you in here," he adds, as G'raha follows him in, and lets the door swing closed behind him. "I trust you to not say anything about it," especially while the location of the Scions' new headquarters was technically an open secret, especially after the establishment of the Crystal Braves and their increasingly high-profile status, it still wasn't something to be gossiped about by just anyone, "But don't come in here without me." 

Narin doesn't intend on telling him yet that he's willing to introduce him to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, after everything is said and done: he doesn't know what G'raha intends to do once the problem of beyond the rift was solved, the connection with the Cloud of Darkness severed, and Nero, as well as Unei and Doga, were safely returned to this side. There's years and years more quiet work at the Tower, he's certain, once all is said and done, but Narin is also certain that G'raha could thrive in an environment like the Scions if he wanted, assuming he doesn't have to return to Sharlayan. But he wants it to be G'raha's choice to join the Scions rather than something he forces on him, and telling him now would just be so much pressure.

"I understand," the scholar says, quiet and clear, following him through the central room towards the side hallway that his room is in . "I won't say anything about it," 

The two of them pass Riol on the way, sitting at his usual table in the central room, and while Narin can't hide the deep blue flush when he catches the thumbs-up that Riol conspiratorially flashes at him out of the corner of his eye, he's grateful that the other man doesn't comment, though he's certain he's going to get asked some questions later. Fortunately, none of the other Scions _or_ any of the Crystal Braves seem to be in evidence, likely either away somewhere or in their rooms, so he doesn't have to answer any awkward questions. He's almost afraid, nearly jumping out of his own skin when Urianger briefly steps out of his room just as Narin is trying to open his own door, that the usually-shy man might ask something out of curiosity, but manages to get away with just nodding to him in greeting. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, as Narin struggles to get the door open, hands trembling from nervousness and finally manages it without having to resort to ramming his shoulder into the door to force it open through sheer brute force, he notices as G'raha's eyes curiously dart to the familiar Archon tattoo on the Elezen's face. Remembers the fact that not only did G'raha study in Sharlayan but he is also closely acquainted with Rammbroes, who had been a member of the Circle of Knowing even though he'd declined to join the Scions of the Seventh Dawn: while he's too young to really have known most of the Archons - and too old to have really known Alphinaud - Narin still wonders about possible connections, once-removed. Maybe he'd try to ask about it, at some point, but for now - 

And promptly has another attack of nerves when G'raha follows him into the room, kicks off his boots, and immediately perches on the edge of his bed like he belongs there, though there's a single, extremely disused chair in the room he could have sat on instead, a chair that Narin has only sat in once and never again, afraid that it would simply collapse beneath him. Tries not to wring his hands nervously as he closes the door behind them and just drags over the also disused small table to set up the food on, unwrapping the skewers and laying them out on the table, as well as the couple of pieces of chocolate. Sits down on the bed himself, reaches for one of the vegetable skewers, and nearly jumps out of his skin as G'raha immediately nestles against his side, even though his warm, slight weight was more than familiar by now. 

"Why do you like stolen food so much?" Narin asks, mildly exasperated, as the little scholar cat-smiles at him. It's mildly annoying but if stealing his food is what gets G'raha interested enough to actually eat instead of ignoring his own needs in favor of the research and intellectual puzzles that he prefers to focus on, then he'll indulge him. 

"It tastes the best," G'raha says, boldly laying himself across his lap and delicately nibbling on a mushroom - and Narin tries not to groan, watching, because he somehow makes it _really suggestive._ He has no idea how anyone can manage to make the simple act of _eating_ so...seductive, but Narin is having a really hard time watching G'raha eat, taking the mushroom into his mouth a little at a time, without thinking about what he'd _rather_ have G'raha do with his mouth, anxiety rising high in him. 

Trying to distract himself by thinking about something - anything - else than what G'raha's full lips look like wrapped around the mushroom he's currently eating and to stop himself from trying to figure out if the Seeker is actually _eating_ the mushroom or if he's just sucking on it to torment him, Narin just takes a bite out of whatever is on the _other_ side of the skewer, not even trying for any semblance of manners or finesse and ends up with a mouthful of spiced tomato. Sun-dried in the middle of summer and put away for winter, rather than fresh: Mor Dhona was not exactly the _best_ place to grow vegetables, or really any plants, and trying to import fresh tomatoes all the way out here in the middle of winter was an expensive fool's errand, even if they were packed with ice crystals to keep them as fresh as possible. 

"Are you going to eat the mushroom," Narin asks, anxiously, "Or are you just going to...toy with it?" 

G'raha cat-smiles again, and Narin knows this is trouble. "Something like this should be savored," he says, and it's immediately obvious that he's being a teasing brat: G'raha normally eats quickly and lightly, too absorbed in books and research to care much about what he eats, barring his taste for citrus fruits, and the last time he's really seen him savor the act of eating was when he'd bought him the duck that the Seeker had promptly stolen off his fork instead. 

"Is that what you're doing?" Narin asks, cautiously, and watches as G'raha's full mouth turns upward again. 

"What else would I be doing?" he asks, and finally swallows the mushroom that he's been lavishing so much attention on with his tongue and lips, swallows slow around it, and Narin feels like he might die of both anxiety and desire, briefly prays for the elder gods to have some kind of mercy on him and for the earth to swallow him whole. Unfortunately, his prayers are not granted, and the gods are not merciful. How can anyone manage to make _eating_ so completely obscene, Narin has no idea, and he only barely manages not to shove the skewer at G'raha. Just...turns his eyes away, briefly, when the younger man takes a bite of the aloe, can hear him sucking on the vegetable, and tries not to clap his hands over his horns, vainly, as he tries very, very hard to not imagine that full flower mouth wrapped around his cock instead and fails miserably. 

_Why is he like this?_

By the time all the skewers are eaten, Narin doesn't really have an impression of how they tasted, beyond a faint memory of spice: he was too busy trying not to jump out of his skin with anxiety and desire to really pay attention to how they tasted. G'raha had at least eaten some of the food, though less than Narin would have liked him to, much like with the duck, but certainly more than he would have if he'd been left up to his own devices, so Narin at least counts that as something of a victory. Tries not to watch G'raha lick the remnants of spices off his fingers and does, anyway, watches as his tongue swipes across his fingers delicately and slowly, and it's even worse that the other man was sitting in his lap, still. He's _already_ hard in his pants-

Takes a breath and exhales, inhale, exhale, before he trusts his voice enough to speak. "You mentioned that you could make these," Narin says, somehow managing to keep his voice only slightly wobbly and is inordinately pleased with himself. "Do these taste like the recipe you're used to?"

"Much better than anything I would have been able to get in Sharlayan," G'raha says, his tail swaying in slow metronome, and Narin remembers what he'd said, about how Sharlayan doesn't believe in flavoring their food. "But not quite right for the recipe that I know. _Different_ , rather - I learned how to make these from my mother, before I left. One of the few things I learned from her." there's something bittersweet in the way his full lips are set, in the angle of his ears and the way his tail sways, as he says this.

Narin almost asks if G'raha misses his mother, but decides not to press: he doesn't seem to really want to talk about her much more, or at least not right now, with how closed-off his body language is when speaking about her. Instead, he reaches up to run his fingers gently through red hair, a gesture meant to be soothing. "I certainly can't cook," he admits, ruefully. "So even your Sharlayan recipes are ahead of what I can do, and anything else is far beyond that."

"Faint praise," G'raha retorts, tail swishing arrogantly, but nestling again against his side, lets Narin stroke his hair and turns his head, flower-like, into the touch. Narin does his best to coax that bittersweet expression from his face, though he isn't quite bold enough yet to pet his (cute) ears, just watches as they move as he runs his fingers through unbound red hair, so soft beneath his fingers, tries not to think about how hard he is and how much he wants and almost succeeds.

That is, however, until he offers G'raha one of the chocolate pieces: he'd thought something sweet might be nice, to follow up the skewers, but it was a bad time of year for citrus, or fruit of any kind, to make its way to Mor Dhona for anything less than exorbitant prices that he can't afford. He _expects_ G'raha to take it out of his hand before eating it, but instead, the little scholar cat-smiles and leans forward, and just _eats_ a bite of the chocolate, right out of his hand: Narin yelps in surprise and jerks back, trying not to flail and entirely failing.

"I'm not hand-feeding you," he yelps, and G'raha's smile only grows a shade more satisfied. 

"Don't you remember? Stolen food tastes the best." he says, tail flicking back and forth.

Narin drops the partially-eaten chocolate back onto the table, hand trembling, just before G'raha reaches out to catch his hand and bring it to his lips, tongue darting out delicately and teasingly to lick at the remnants of chocolate on his fingers. Slow and slow and Narin can feel his face heat: he was _already_ absolutely hard in his loose pants, anxiety static loud in the back of his head, even before this, but now he both wants _so_ much _(and has the unfortunate mental image of just knocking the chocolate off the table and bending G'raha over it, right now)_ and wants to combust from sheer anxiety.

"I," Narin begins, just as G'raha bends his head and takes a couple of his fingers all the way into his mouth, full, pretty lips stretched open wide around them, and _groans_ despite himself. It's obscene, especially once G'raha starts sucking the chocolate slowly off them, and Narin can't help but want G'raha's pretty mouth stretched open around his cock, instead - and is entirely certain, his face surely at least three different shades of blue right now, that _that_ image was what G'raha means to invoke _right now,_ clear invitation. Swallows, breath catching in his throat, and tries not to trip over his own feet. "I," he says, stops, and then tries one more time, tries to shove down both his anxiety and his desire because part of him _(that he doesn't think about too closely)_ wants to shove G'raha to his knees, _right now_ but he also wants to flee into the rainy Mor Dhona night and possibly out of his skin almost as much _._

 _Isn't it alright to want?_ that familiar whisper, at the back of his head, that speaks with his own voice asks, and Narin takes a breath. And then another. And then another. And makes his choice. _Isn't it?_

"Give me a moment," he says, and doesn't mean it as a _no_ , and G'raha opens his mouth to let his fingers go. "I'm going to make myself a drink. Do you want one as well?"

~~~

Narin pours himself a drink, vodka and orange juice - and makes G'raha one as well. Perhaps it's a mistake to drink here like this, but he doesn't really want to go back to the bar and doesn't have the money for it, either. G'raha's weight is so nice in his lap, the Seeker curled up against his side as if he belongs there, and Narin tries not to think about how much he wants lest his breath be caught in his throat, listening to the rain against the roof. 

He's a couple of drinks in - nowhere near drunk, but pleasantly warm and with the static of his anxiety in the back of his head dulled, the alcohol burning away inhibitions - when G'raha shifts on his lap and asks, quietly, "What was your first time like?" 

Somehow, Narin manages to not jump or sputter, though he can feel his cheeks heat and he's probably another nice shade of sapphire right now, on top of the three shades of blue he'd already turned. "Excuse me?" he asks, and G'raha's tail sways, considering. 

"Are you a virgin, then?" the little scholar asks, then, with a quiet gentleness to his voice, as if realizing something.

Even with a couple of drinks in, alcohol burning away his inhibitions, Narin immediately trips over his own feet. 

"N-no," he yelps, trying not to wring his hands. "I'm not," and then immediately clarifies, "It wasn't bad or anything, it was pleasant. I just wasn't expecting that question-"

"If you don't want to talk about it," G'raha offers, and Narin shakes his head.

"G-give me a moment," he says, and tries not to trip over himself when he answers. "It was...a while ago? A cute boy I grew up with was flirting with me during a rainstorm, and one thing led to another, and well. Qadan and I were both pretty fumbly, but it was nice enough. Pleasant."

"Cute," G'raha says, voice warm, one ear flicking attentively, and Narin blushes even deeper.

It had been pleasant enough, but Narin hadn't understood at the time what the fuss around sex was about. Pleasant, yes, but not really worth the effort, but easy on his anxiety. He hadn't understood until the next time he'd had sex, with a different man who had yielded to him instead, just _why_ he hadn't been that into sex with Qadan, as much as he liked him, and why he hadn't really been anxious at all despite wanting things making him anxious from a young age. Yielding in bed was much easier on his anxiety - _because it wasn't what he really wanted_.

"What about you?" Narin asks, and G'raha's tail sways in metronome as he considers the question.

"It was fine," the little scholar says. "Though not as cute as yours. I was invited to a party while I was still studying in Sharlayan- the first _and_ last time I was - and spent a bit talking to someone I'd met in passing. Entirely different field, I was tired of arguing with everyone in mine. He told me that he could show me a _very_ good time and I dared him to prove it. I didn't bother to tell him until after that I'd been a virgin."

Narin's mouth opens, then closes, opens again, then closes because he can't think of what to say for a moment. "Why wouldn't you tell him?" he asks, and almost winces, because he sounds stupid to his own ears.

"Because I didn't want him to _coddle_ me," G'raha scoffs, aloof and arch. "And he didn't. He held me down and fucked me without holding back."

Narin can feel his flush spreading down to his neck especially at G'raha's precise use of the vulgarity, most likely livid blue against his pale skin, and manages to set down his empty glass on the table next to G'raha's still mostly-full one. "And what did he do when you told him?"

"Bent me over his desk, pushed up my skirt, and had me a couple of more times." G'raha says, ears flicking. "To get me used to it, or so he said. I didn't want him to be gentle, and he wasn't. And it was, as he said, a very good time, even though I had a hard time walking the next day."

The noise Narin makes is strangled, especially as he can just _imagine_ this and can't tear his mind away from the image. Can't stop himself from imagining himself doing the same thing, even as he tries not to. "I don't," he says, weakly. "I don't understand."

"I like roughness," G'raha says, slim body curving against his, and it's all Narin can do to _not_ rest his hands on him. "And...challenges, as you know. With how small I am, it inevitably hurts to be taken with...size differences...but I like that."

Narin swallows. "I," he begins, and tries not to think about his hands on G'raha's body, so large against his slender, small frame. He wants so much, after so long of trying not to want _(still trying not to want)_ , but he doesn't know what he wants. Not truly. Images and ideas of things that he would like to hold G'raha down and do, but he's uncertain of his tastes, otherwise. Not like G'raha, who hasn't spent years trying not to want and knows his own desires. "I don't know what I want," he admits, weakly. "Not like you do." and then mutters. "I wish I had your confidence."

G'raha was already perching over him but now he leans over him with easy, casual grace. "I had to learn what I wanted," the little scholar says, reaching up to pull the pins out of his hair and undoes his braid, red hair falling unbound to his shoulders and glimmering in the lamplight. "I had an _idea_ of what I wanted, and what I wouldn't tolerate, but it wasn't the same as knowing, or knowing my own body."

Without thinking, Narin reaches up to run his fingers through pretty red hair, again. "How did you learn? If I can, uh, ask-" he says, trying not to stumble over his words.

"Experience," G'raha says, his tail swaying behind him. "The...next several times after my first time were...mediocre, at best, but I learned some things."

"Like what?" Narin asks, after a moment, and nearly stumbles over himself apologizing. "S-sorry, if you didn't want to talk about it-"

"It's fine." G'raha says, settling over him. "I learned how to deal with mediocre experiences, to temper my expectations accordingly, and how to take care of my own needs. Interspersed with much _better_ times. Like I said before - most of the brief, casual encounters I've had are mediocre, with some _much_ better ones and some much worse."

Narin's eyes narrow for a moment. "What do you mean?" he asks, carefully. "About those early flings, I mean."

"There were...a couple of times, early on in my experiences, that I faked finding my pleasure." G'raha says, shrugging, though Narin _definitely_ doesn't accept this as casually as G'raha tells it. He's very inexperienced and unsure of himself but Narin at least _knows_ that he would _try_ his hardest to get a partner to come, even if he wasn't skilled enough to actually _manage_ it without help: it would take an _intensely_ selfish person to not even try and not even _notice_. And honestly he wants to throw those people into a lake. Just straight into Silvertear Lake. He's also paid close attention to G'raha, who likes casual physical pleasure for fun but also has low self-esteem beneath his aloof arrogance _and_ quietly de-prioritizes his own needs when it comes to anyone else taking care of him, both out and presumably _in_ bed as well.

"I'm not a good actor, so it says a lot about those people that I slept with," G'raha says, archly, his tail swishing. "That I could even get away with it. The first time, I was inexperienced enough and uncertain enough that I put up with it."

"And the second?" Narin asks.

G'raha shrugs, one slender shoulder shifting. "I absolutely had sharp words for him after, because I realized I wouldn't put up with that anymore. _He_ called me a lying Miqo'te whore, so then I threw his drink at him _and_ insulted his Allagan translations, calling them the worst I'd ever seen _and_ completely inaccurate."

Narin opens his mouth, closes his mouth, opens his mouth again, not certain if he should say anything and tries really hard not to laugh and fails. "S-sorry," he mutters, and G'raha's tail flicks. "I just don't have any idea what I'm doing."

"Like I said, I would rather have someone who doesn't know what to do but is willing to listen and learn and be taught than someone who doesn't know and won't listen." G'raha says, and cat-smiles. "Besides, we could learn. _Together."_

Narin takes a breath, and then another, and then another, before he makes his choice, reaching out with one hand _(so large, next to G'raha's slender waist)_ , fingers gripping tighter then he intends, bruising-tight. _Please,_ he asks, himself, _please let it be alright to want-_

~~~

Unfortunately, G'raha is much more exhausted than he clearly thinks he is: he hadn't remembered the fit he'd had earlier in the Tower and that, as well as the fact that he hadn't been sleeping enough for a while before then was more than enough. The little scholar gets one pretty leg between Narin's thighs and tilts his face to kiss him - and then simply goes limp with a quiet little breath, asleep within the space of a few more breaths.

Narin sighs. At least G'raha is sleeping, for once, and he can't bring himself to move or disturb him, not even to get up and slink off to the lake to...take care of himself. Tries to think about how cold the water of Silvertear Lake is, tries to think about winter, tries to think about something other than his frustrated desire, tries not to want and wants anyway: he wants so much, after spending so long trying not to want.

 _It's alright, isn't it?_ he asks the part of himself that speaks in the back of his head with his own voice, lying in bed with G'raha draped over him, hard and aching, with the alcohol mostly burned out of his system and his inhibitions, his anxieties, beginning to filter back. _It's alright, isn't it, to want?_ _Isn't it?_

_Please let it be alright-_


End file.
